


Guided By A Beating Heart

by torakowalski



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Javert/Jean Valjean, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Other, Panic Attacks, Secret PTSD, Tattoos, Very very background implied Combeferre/Eponine, canon-typical violence in later chapters, sex instead of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 83,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: Grantaire's voice curls as though he’s laughing at a private joke.  “You seem… alive?”“Why wouldn’t I be?” Enjolras asks.  When Grantaire doesn’t answer, just shrugs, Enjolras finds himself pressing, “Why wouldn’t I be alive?”Grantaire looks at him directly for the first time.  There’s no warmth in his expression, no amusement or affection, nothing Enjolras is used to seeing there.  “Whywouldyou be?  It’s been four years, dude.”
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 264
Kudos: 566





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this fic is Sad Corporate Enjolras because... Enjolras is sad. And he works for a corporate.
> 
> I first had the idea back in 2015, wrote about 80% of it in 2019, and have now decided that it needs to see the light of day. The first 40,000 words are done and I'll be posting chapters as they're edited / betaed. I'm estimating approximately 60,000 words in total but that (and the number of chapters) is subject to change.
> 
> Huge thank you to Moog, who has read this many more times than once, and did the fastest ever beta on this chapter <3

“Marius,” Enjolras says, relieved, as the barista hands him a cup of coffee and Marius answers the phone, all at the same time. “Where were you? I called you three times.”

“I was late in,” Marius says, as though that’s fine and understandable, not exactly the same disaster that Enjolras is currently experiencing. “There’s some kind of disruption on the metro.”

“I know,” Enjolras groans. “They’ve closed my station completely. I’m on my way to the next one, but I’m going to be horribly late. If the representatives from Patron-Minette arrive before me, take care of them will you?” 

He shoulders open the door to the cafe, almost hitting an older lady in the face. He’s so distracted that it doesn’t occur to him to say sorry until she’s already walked inside the shop and by then, it’s too late. 

“Really?” Marius asks, dubiously. “You know they hate me. What should I say if - ”

Up ahead, crowds spill across the pavement and into the street, swarming around the entrance to the station that Enjolras is heading to. He swears, which cuts Marius off abruptly. “Look,” Enjolras says. “You’ll be fine. I trust you. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

He ends the call and drops his phone into his satchel, before squaring his shoulders and ploughing into the throng. 

The first few rows of people aren’t really committed to queuing yet, so they let him pass fairly easily. After that, though, they grow more dedicated and Enjolras finds himself coming up against a brick-like wall of extended elbows, furious texting, and angry glares.

He glares back, but before he can decide whether to launch a secondary assault on a weaker looking column of commuters, he hears a soft, cut-off sound that stops him in his tracks.

It’s the start of his name, just, “Enj-” and then it’s gone.

He turns around, wondering who can possibly have recognised him. A client, presumably, although they would have started by calling him _Monsieur_. 

There’s no one looking in his direction, no one smiling or trying to make eye contact. Enjolras starts to think that maybe he misheard, or maybe the person was saying some other word, but then he catches sight of the side of someone’s head, someone who is very clearly and very deliberately _not looking_ at him.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, the name springing to his lips through years of memory and spilling off his traitorous tongue, before he can call it back.

Grantaire’s shoulders tighten but he turns toward Enjolras. It’s definitely him. He has the same wild dark curls, the same scruffy beard, possibly even the same red knitted hat. There are no splashes of paint on his face, which Enjolras finds himself expecting to see, and his eyes are clear, when they always used to be clouded.

Grantaire’s lips twitch toward a smile that doesn’t reach his cheeks, let alone his eyes. He looks down at the ground then back up at Enjolras then away again. 

“Hi,” he says.

Something switches in Enjolras’s brain at the word. Before this was a dream, but now Grantaire is speaking to him, which means that he’s real, he’s really here.

Enjolras takes a step back automatically, only to find himself knocking into people who don’t give way for him. Grantaire actually glances back over his own shoulder, as though he’s planning his own escape, but he’s just as hemmed in as Enjolras is.

Enjolras swallows. “Hello,” he says. “How, uh, how are you?” He can’t remember the last time he stumbled over what to say. Although he also can’t remember the last time he had to make smalltalk with someone he knows.

“I - ” Grantaire blinks once then shakes his head. “That’s what you want to talk about?”

“No,” Enjolras says immediately. What he means is _I don’t want to talk about anything with you_ , but now he’s discovered he can’t beat a dignified retreat, he certainly doesn’t intend to run away. “Yes. Are you well?”

“I am,” Grantaire says. His voice curls as though he’s laughing at a private joke. “You seem… alive?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Enjolras asks. When Grantaire doesn’t answer, just shrugs, Enjolras finds himself pressing, “Why wouldn’t I be alive?”

Grantaire looks at him directly for the first time. There’s no warmth in his expression, no amusement or affection, nothing Enjolras is used to seeing there. “Why _would_ you be? It’s been four years, dude.”

It’s been three years and eight months. Enjolras doesn’t say that. “I have to go to work,” he says. It’s not even a good deflection, simply a straight-up plea to be allowed to escape. 

“Don’t we all?” Grantaire says. He looks at the crowds, which aren’t moving, the locked gates in front of the metro entrance, which aren’t opening, and then back at Enjolras. Enjolras doesn’t move; he’s not sure he blinks. “Where do you work?”

“La Défense,” Enjolras says, then wishes he’d kept that to himself, when Grantaire’s lips twist in undisguised judgement. 

Grantaire rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that takes Enjolras back through time to moments at the Corinth when arguments became exhausting, but neither of them was ready to back down. 

“Okay, well I… don’t,” Grantaire says. “But I’m more or less heading that way. Want to share an uber?”

Enjolras can’t think of anything he’d like less. This is bad enough, trapped in their own little bubble on the pavement. Being actually trapped together within a car sounds so much worse.

“Yes, why not,” he says.

Grantaire smiles at him again, that same humourless grin. “Why not,” he repeats. “What a question.”

***

Enjolras arrives at the office, just as Marius is showing out a man wearing a very ostentatious and probably very expensive suit.

Marius catches Enjolras’s eye and shakes his head slightly, so Enjolras hangs back out of sight, waiting for them to say their goodbyes, before entering the building.

“Good meeting?” he asks following Marius to the lifts. 

“Barely any meeting,” Marius says. He presses the button for their floor. As soon as the lift doors close, his shoulders droop. It makes his suit sag down over his hands as though he’s wearing an older brother’s hand-me-downs.

Enjolras doesn’t want to ask if he’s all right; he doesn’t want to do anything that invites intimacies. Instead, he makes an interrogatory sound and hopes that it will be enough.

“That was Monsieur Claquesous, Patron-Minette’s COO. I don’t think he liked me at _all_.” Marius sounds sad about it, as though being disliked by a senior executive of somewhere like Patron-Minette is a bad thing. But then, Enjolras has to remind himself, since Patron-Minette are their clients, it actually is.

“I’m sure he did,” Enjolras says bracingly. He would pat Marius on the shoulder, but the last time he did that, Marius took that as an invitation for a manly hug. “Where did you leave things with him?”

Marius sighs again then seems to decide to shake himself out of it. Enjolras much prefers Marius when he remembers he’s a lawyer, not a rather forlorn puppy. “He left us with some files and he’s going to send some more over on Monday. Apparently the protesters are getting more organised.”

The lift reaches their floor and they step out together. “Against the development or against the incinerator?” Enjolras asks. Patron-Minette is a property firm, which has bought up a huge swathe of green belt land, where they’re planning to build luxury apartments, while turning the brown best land down-wind and out of sight into a giant waste incinerator. 

It’s Enjolras’s job to make sure the disgruntled voices that are starting to be heard don’t get any louder.

Enjolras tries not to think about his job too often.

“The incinerator, mostly,” Marius starts, then his whole face breaks into a red-faced smile. “Hi, Cosette.”

Cosette looks up from her desk and smiles back. She manages to confine her blush to her cheeks, while Marius has gone blotchy all the way down his neck. Enjolras thanks heaven for (very small) mercies.

“Hello you,” she says. “Hello Enjolras. How could you leave Marius to face those horrible people alone?”

Something about Cosette’s bright, genuine reactions to everything always terrifies Enjolras, always makes him worry that he’ll accidentally break her heart.

“It was hardly my fault; the metro’s fucked, uh, broken,” he protests.

Cosette beams at him. She seems to find it hilarious that no one ever wants to swear in front of her.

“I heard,” she says, and squeezes his arm, so apparently he’s forgiven. “Actually, I thought you’d be later than this. I moved your ten a.m. meeting for you.”

Enjolras can’t remember who his ten a.m. meeting is with, but he doesn’t have meetings that he looks forward to, so he definitely doesn’t object. “Thank you.”

“How _did_ you get here so quickly?” Marius asks. Enjolras doesn’t understand why they both have to be so interested in his life. It’s taking workplace cordiality too far.

“I shared an uber with someone,” he says. He means it to be a brush-off, an end to the conversation, but instead, Marius looks surprised and Cosette looks interested.

“Did you make a friend in the crowd?” she asks. Something about the way she says _make a friend_ makes Enjolras feel four-years-old.

“No, it was someone I already knew,” he says. 

He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to think about forty excruciating minutes in a carwith Grantaire, about Grantaire losing his amused, impatient edge as soon as they were alone, and nervously playing with his shoe laces with single-minded determination, refusing to look Enjolras in the eye.

“Oh,” Cosette says, still smiling. “How nice.”

Enjolras doesn’t miss the tiny glance she and Marius share, as though neither of them expected to hear that he had any social interactions outside of work. He ignores it.

“Better get to work,” he says, turning away abruptly from Cosette’s desk. “Marius, the files are in my office?”

“Yes,” Marius says. His voice is far enough behind Enjolras that he’s obviously not following Enjolras down the corridor. Good, let him hang around making cow eyes at Cosette. Enjolras needs some time to himself, anyway.

Someone has opened his office door, turned the lights on and cracked the window to let a little fresh air in. They’ve even turned on his computer. If any of the partners had come by, it would have looked as though Enjolras had just stepped away from his desk, rather than that he hadn’t arrived yet.

“Thank you, Marius,” Enjolras says, and sits down in his chair.

The Patron-Minette files are beside his computer, just like Marius said they would be. Enjolras looks at them, looks at the door he forgot to close, and drops his face into his hands.

He’s shaking, has been since he first saw Grantaire this morning, but this is the first time he’s let himself acknowledge it.

“Fuck,” he says, very quietly to his palms. “Get it together, Enjolras.”

He allows himself one more heartfelt _fuck_ , then he sits up and makes himself get to work.

***

He keeps his head down and works hard all day, until it falls dark outside his office window and Cosette knocks at the door.

“Hi,” she says. “Good day?”

“Productive,” Enjolras says, letting himself smile back at her. “You?”

“Oh, great,” she says. He’s fairly certain that she hates her job here, but she never says and he’s never asked. “Marius and I are going out for drinks; would you like to come?”

“No, thank you,” Enjolras says, immediately. “But thank you for the offer.”

“Aww, come on,” she wheedles. “It will be fun. If Marius has more than two drinks, he starts giggling. It’s adorable.”

Enjolras can’t think of anything worse than a drunk and giggling Marius. “Really, no,” he says. Then, because he does value the fact that she tries to include him, adds, “I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel.”

Cosette blushes, but her laugh is more amused than embarrassed. “You wouldn’t be.” Then she widens her eyes and delivers what she obviously thinks will be her winning point. “Grace from Finance is coming too. You two would get along so well.”

Unfortunately for Cosette, her closing argument is the one thing guaranteed to ensure Enjolras will never say yes.

“I really do have a lot of work to do,” he says, and looks away from her, down at the file notes spread all around his desk.

“Okay,” Cosette sighs. Enjolras is sure she can’t really be disappointed, but she sounds it, and his stomach swirls guiltily. “Have a good weekend.”

“You too,” Enjolras says, and flips over to a fresh sheet in his notebook.

***

Enjolras works until security arrive to throw him out of the building. He packs up his files, tucks them into his messenger bag, and takes them home to work on over the weekend.

He sleeps in on Saturday morning, more through force of will than any cooperation from his body, then goes for a long run, buys lunch from a bakery, then heads home to do some more work.

He knows Cosette would disapprove, but he’s found through trial and error over the years that he doesn’t do well if left alone with his thoughts for the two days of every weekend.

At five fifty-five that evening, Enjolras’s spine beings to tense. At six p.m. exactly, his phone rings.

It’s been ringing at six p.m. every Saturday for the past three years and seven months, and as on all previous occasions, Enjolras stares at the screen and wishes he were brave enough to pick up.

The phone rings eight times, as it always does. Then it goes to voicemail. Enjolras waits to see if there will be a message. There won’t be. There never is.

One minute later, he picks up his phone and types out a text.

 _Sorry I missed you_.

He’s written those words in that order so many times that his phone’s predictive text offers him the option to select the words, before he’s typed them, but the least he can do is write out the whole message letter by letter, so he does.

It doesn’t take long to get a reply:

_Don’t worry. I’ll try again next week. Combeferre._

Enjolras closes his eyes. He wonders if Combeferre’s phone predicts those words for him, too. If Combeferre can write that message with a couple of clicks and no thought.

By five past six, he’s back to working on his files, and he can almost forget that he was ever interrupted.

***

On Monday, Marius arrives in Enjolras’s office at nine a.m. looking out of breath and waving a piece of shiny green paper.

“Look at this,” he says, dropping it down onto Enjolras’s desk.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks. He’s halfway through a sentence he’s been pondering for the last half an hour, trying to hit the right note of forceful without sounding condescending. It’s difficult with some of his clients. A lot of them are very, very stupid.

“Enjolras,” Marius says, in a firm tone he rarely uses.

Enjolras looks up and finds that Marius has more of the green pieces of paper in his other hand. 

“These were just delivered to reception,” he says. “Someone must have discovered we’re representing Patron-Minette. Apparently they’re all over the construction site, too. Monsieur Thenardier phoned and he’s… well.” Marius rubs his ear as though the force of Thenardier’s anger rattled something loose in there.

“What did he say?” Enjolras asks, picking up what turns out to be a flier. 

“Nothing I’m prepared to repeat,” Marius says, and sinks down into the visitor’s chair by the side of Enjolras’s desk. 

Enjolras turns the flier over in his hands. **Protect Our Home** it says at the top, which Enjolras personally feels is a little vague. Underneath, is a bullet point list of the effects that Patron-Minette’s development will have on the surrounding wildlife. 

All around the edges are tiny, cartoon drawings that Enjolras initially thinks are purely for decoration. Then he looks closer and finds that the tiny, pencil-drawn hedgehog is wearing a gasmask, the squirrel is crying over a tree devoid of nuts, and a family of newts appear to be sleeping rough.

“This is quite good,” he says, before remembering that he’s not alone.

“If you like it, there are about three thousand more downstairs,” Marius tells him.

Enjolras’s head snaps up. “Three _thousand_?” he asks.

Marius nods. “Delivered by forklift truck. Cosette’s gone out to check where else they’ve been delivered to, but we’re guessing local homes and businesses.” He picks one up and turns it over. “Is it true?”

Enjolras frowns at him. “You know it is,” he says. Marius is intelligent and an idealist, he must know what they’re helping Patron-Minette to achieve.

“Yeah,” Marius says quietly. He smooths out the leaflet, probably more for something to do with his hands than anything else. Then he frowns and leans forward. “Oh wow, look, they’ve signed it.”

“Who?” Enjolras asks, leaning in too. “The protest group?”

“Yes, look. It’s tiny but it’s there.” Marius sets his fingernail into the paper, underscoring a string of letters, printed so small that Enjolras has to squint to read them.

When he finally deciphers it, it’s all he can do not to groan out loud. Only years and years of not showing any emotion lets him keep himself in check.

_(c) Les Amis de l’ABC._

“I wonder what that stands for,” Marius says, rubbing his nail back and forth beneath the letters until there’s a permanent dent in the paper.

 _Nothing_ , Enjolras thinks. _Sound it out, Marius. It’s a pun not an initialism_. He doesn’t say that. He can’t believe they’re still using the name. He can’t believe they still exist.

“Against Basic Construction?” he suggests wryly, relieved when Marius laughs. “No, I’m not sure. I think I’ll look into it though, see what I can find out.”

“You will?” Marius asks. “Don’t you want Cosette to?”

“No,” Enjolras says quickly. It is strange for Enjolras to investigate something like this himself, rather than asking Cosette to do it, since Enjolras is a lawyer and Cosette is their in-house investigator, but Enjolras has to do this. “I’m happy to do it. Cosette is busy following other leads. This isn’t the only protest, you know.” He hopes that will be enough to satisfy Marius. 

“Okay,” Marius says, shrugging. “When you find them, tell them this is an awful waste of paper for people who supposedly worry about the planet.”

Enjolras smiles, entertained by Marius’s priorities. “I will,” he promises.

***

Enjolras doesn’t sleep that night. He doesn’t even try, knowing exactly which nightmares his brain supply, if he does.

Instead, he sits up and tries to come up with a plan, which will keep the ABC away from Patron-Minette, and vice versa, without any of them noticing his interference.

This is the sort of thing he thinks he used to be very good at. Now he can’t sort a viable plan from the swirling confusion of his thoughts.

It would be easy, if he could just call Combeferre, but he _can’t_ call Combeferre. Even thinking about it makes breath catch until his vision tunnels into blackness.

The one feasible idea he keeps coming back to is Grantaire. Enjolras doubts that Grantaire is still involved in the cause, not after so many years, not when he barely cared in the first place. But he’s almost certainly still friends with Joly, and Joly is much more likely to still be in the ABC or to know someone who is.

If Enjolras can find Grantaire again, maybe he can convince him to pass a message to the ABC without mentioning Enjolras.

Possibly. 

Enjolras is a little hazy on the details of this plan, because he can’t remember what Grantaire likes, but he’s sure he could offer him some kind of incentive.

He finally drifts into an exhausted doze, teeth clenched together so hard from stress that he half-expects one of them to be snapped by morning.

***

In the morning, Enjolras takes a cold shower to try to wake himself up, dresses neatly in a newly dry cleaned suit, then texts Marius to tell him he has a client meeting and will be out of the office all morning.

Then he walks down the road to the metro station. 

During their endless, awkward journey last week, Enjolras learnt exactly nothing about what Grantaire’s doing these days, except that he asked the uber driver to drop him off first, before she took Enjolras into La Défense.

So Enjolras knows where Grantaire was last Friday, which seems a reasonable enough place to start today.

The tiny, glass-front shop that Enjolras pushes his way into turns out to be a tattoo parlour. It’s very modern-looking, very clean, with neatly framed photographs of tattoo art mounted on the walls.

The man behind the counter looks surprised to see Enjolras, but whether that’s because they don’t usually get visitors early in the morning or those visitors aren’t usually men in suits, Enjolras can’t be sure.

“Good morning,” he says, stepping up to the counter. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. He was in here on Friday.”

The man is taller than Enjolras and much broader. The dark skin of his upper arms and neck is liberally covered with tattoos, but his forearms are oddly bare. His eyes sweep over Enjolras. “Then he’s probably not still here today,” he says. It isn’t unfriendly, in fact it’s almost certainly teasing, but Enjolras is tired and he isn’t feeling up to much conversation.

“I was wondering if you could give me his address,” Enjolras says. “I wouldn’t usually ask but - ”

“No,” the man says, before Enjolras can finish. “I can’t do that, dude. That’d be illegal. Ever heard of GDPR?” He smiles, wide and pleasant. He appears to be missing a back tooth.

Enjolras glances past him at the framed art on the wall, hoping inspiration will come to him. He’s good at convincing people to do what he wants. He shouldn’t have come here when he was so tired.

Then he frowns. The art reminds him of something else. It’s a woodland scene out of a Grimm fairytale, Disney creatures turned into vampires and monsters and werewolves. The squirrel in the far right, holding a wooden stake like Buffy’s, looks incredibly familiar. 

“The artist who drew that?” he asks. If it’s not the same artist who drew the ABC flier, he’ll eat his hat. Well, he’ll buy a hat and then he’ll eat it. God, he’s tired.

“You like it?” the man asks, nodding like he approves of Enjolras’s taste. “Cool, huh?”

Enjolras nods. It is cool. In an incredibly horrifying way. He really likes it. “Yes. It’s… Does that artist work here?”

“Fridays and Saturdays,” he says. “Rest of the week he’s in his own shop down the road. Want me to call him over?”

“No, thank you,” Enjolras says quickly. “Could you give me directions to his shop?”

“Sure.” For some reason, this man seems to find Enjolras hilarious. Enjolras wishes he knew why, so he could stop doing whatever it is that’s so entertaining. “Here.” He hands over a card with a small, printed map on it. “Tell him Bahorel sent you.”

“I will, thank you,” Enjolras says, taking the card and curling it into his hand. “Have a good day.”

“Oh, you too,” Bahorel says, still sounding far too amused.

Enjolras lets himself out of the shop, then looks down to the check the card. The logo printed on it is for a shop called _R’s_. Enjolras wishes he could feel surprised.

The shop is down the road, just as Bahorel said. Enjolras gets there quicker than he’s comfortable with, before he’s worked out exactly what he’s going to say. He detours into a coffee shop opposite, and takes a seat in the window, trying to think up a plan.

Enjolras pours sugar into a black coffee and stirs it slowly. His fingers are shaking slightly, which he’s aware is ridiculous, the tiny metal spoon tapping against the side of his china cup.

He stares across the street toward the shop, sorting his way through various introductory sentences. _Grantaire, I’m aware you’re angry with me... Grantaire, it was a pleasure to see you the other day... Grantaire, I was wondering if you’d be willing to assist me in helping an evil construction company..._

He’s thinking so hard that he almost misses the moment that Grantaire arrives. He’s walking quickly down the street, earphones jammed in his ears and another knitted hat on his head, black this time, matching his leather jacket.

As Enjolras watches, Grantaire unlocks the door and steps inside. He leaves the door open, and opens the blinds, and suddenly Enjolras can see all the way inside the shop.

It looks similar to Bahorel’s, clean and modern, but there are comfortable-looking sofas spread around, where Bahorel has gleaming metal chairs. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Enjolras tells himself, earning a startled glance from the woman beside him. Grantaire isn’t frightening. Grantaire runs a tattoo parlour with _sofas_.

Enjolras downs the remains of his coffee and stands up. He heads across the road and is just about to knock on the open door to warn Grantaire of his presence, when he realises Grantaire isn’t alone.

There’s a person sitting on one of Grantaire’s tattoo chairs, swinging their legs and laughing. They have long, red hair with paper flowers plaited into it, and they’re wearing a short, blue, denim dress over a pair of dark leggings and combat boots.

It takes Enjolras far longer than it should to recognise Jehan Prouvaire. The last time Enjolras saw them, their hair was clipped short and dyed white blond and there was blood pouring down their chin from a split lip.

It takes two blinks for Enjolras to clear that memory from his sight. He hangs back, unable to make himself talk to Grantaire with Jehan there too. Jehan was the one who first brought Grantaire to their meetings, and they were always fiercely protective of him.

“Pink or yellow?” Grantaire is asking from inside the shop.

“Pink,” Jehan says, “No, wait, yellow.” They hold out their arm, when Grantaire comes toward them.

Enjolras assumes they’re here for a tattoo. Instead, Grantaire pulls a chair up to the table, and lays out a set of watercolour paints. He picks up Jehan’s hand and turns it over, then starts to paint on the skin inside their wrist.

Jehan laughs and squirms as though it tickles, but then they hold still, and relax. The two of them chat easily, too quietly for Enjolras to hear. 

He’s just about to leave them to it - he knows where Grantaire can be found now; he can come back later - when there’s a clatter of feet, and a man comes through a door at the back of the shop.

“I overslept!” he declares. “Jean Prouvaire, you’re supposed to be my alarm clock.”

The pavement shifts under Enjolras’s feet, his ears buzz and his loses the ability to focus his eyes.

Momentarily, he wonders if he’s just seeing what he wants to see. Over the past three years and eight months, he’s lost count of the number of tall men with tanned skin and riotous black curls, who he’s had to take a second glance at.

But no, this time it really _is_ Courfeyrac. 

Enjolras wants to leave. He wants to run as far as he can before Courfeyrac sees him, but at the same time, he can’t stop staring.

Courfeyrac is wearing a narrow, blue suit and a red shirt with an open collar and no tie. In his left hand is a derby walking cane, with a trilby hat hooked over the handle.

He looks bright and healthy, he looks _alive_ , which is the opposite of the way he looked, when Enjolras last saw him.

Enjolras’s eyes sting. He bites the inside of his cheek, breathing unsteadily. As he watches, Courfeyrac leans over the top of Grantaire’s head and catches Jehan’s mouth in a slow, soft kiss.

That’s new.

Except that Grantaire isn’t reacting in the slightest, so clearly it’s not new, at all. Enjolras has missed so much.

He turns away and presses his back to the wall beside the shop window. His breath is coming in uneven gasps, and when he lifts a hand to his mouth, he finds that it’s shaking harder than he can control.

Blindly, Enjolras walks away from the shop. He gets himself onto a metro and sinks down into one of the few empty seats. 

He takes deep breaths and drops his head into his hands. Courfeyrac is okay. Enjolras has been so scared for so many years, but he’s okay.

***

“There’s going to be a protest!” Monsieur Thenardier screeches, storming into Enjolras’s office and slapping a piece of paper down on his desk.

Enjolras hasn’t been sleeping and his nerves are frayed, so he’ll forgive himself for the fact that he jumps and bangs his knee on the underneath of his desk.

“Excuse me?” he asks, trying to sound polite, while his heart pounds in his ears.

Thenardier braces his hands on the desk and leans forward. His nose and his teeth are crooked, his eyebrows wild and his eyes unhinged. Enjolras would prefer that his breath was a lot further away from Enjolras’s face.

“A protest,” Thenardier repeats, sounding the words out slowly as though Enjolras is hard of hearing. “Those bastards, those hippie bastards are planning a protest on my land.”

He spits when he talks. Enjolras tries to be subtle as he wipes his cheek.

“May I see that?” he asks. He reaches for the paper in Thenardier’s hand, but Thenardier is quicker and slaps it onto Enjolras’s palm.

Then Thenardier spins on his heel and stalks out of the room. “Read it!” he yells, from the corridor. “I’ll be in the bar.”

There is no bar, but Enjolras doesn’t point that out. He’s more than certain that Thenardier has already located the partners’ lounge and their extensive whiskey collection.

Enjolras smoothes out the paper and swears. It’s a notice of intention to gather peacefully, and it’s signed by the ABC. 

“Fuck,” Enjolras says. Then for good meassure, again: “Fuck.”

He stands up and walks out of the room, looking for Thenardier. On the way, he bumps into Cosette.

“Enjolras,” she says, grabbing his arm. She looks upset, eyes wide and mouth set. “You need to go and talk to them, the things they’re… I think it might get ugly.”

“What might?” Enjolras asks. “The protest? No, I’m sure this sort of group wouldn’t want any kind of - ”

“Not them,” Cosette interrupts. “Us.”

It takes Enjolras a moment to connect the concept of ‘us’ with the people he works for. In his head, he and Cosette and Marius are separate from them, although he knows that's only a distinction he maintains to help himself to sleep at night. When he can.

“Thanks,” he says, which he knows makes no sense in context or out of it. He squeezes Cosette’s arm and hurries to the partners’ lounge.

He finds Thenardier holding court from one of the leather armchairs. He’s waving around a bottle of very expensive whiskey, while he clutches a full tumbler greedily in his other hand. 

“I can assure you that this won’t be allowed to stand,” the senior partner, Valois, says with all the arrogance and pomp that makes him Enjolras’s least favourite in a long line of detestable people. “We have friends in the police force, we can certainly - ”

“No,” Thenardier says, cutting him off. “No.” His narrow eyes gleam and Enjolras instantly understands why Cosette was so unsettled. He’s definitely planning something. “No, let’s let them have their day in the sun. We’ll make sure they never have another.”

“Sir,” Enjolras says, stepping forward. He feels a little dizzy, his chest oddly tight, but he pushes that aside. It’s unimportant.

Valois looks up at him. For a second, he looks at Enjolras the way Enjolras’s great aunt used to look at cats who used her flowerbeds as a toilet. Then he nods. “Ah, Enjolras, capital, call Inspector Javert for me, would you, and make sure - ”

Thenardier saves Enjolras from having to point out that Javert might take his money, but he hates him - and, in fact, hates all of them - by snorting phlemily. 

“That sanctimonious, good for nothing, limp-wristed waste of a uniform,” Thenardier mutters. Enjolras’s chest gets tighter. “No, no, we’ll handle this, don’t you worry.”

“What are you going to do?” Enjolras asks, ignoring the way Valois tries to shush him. 

Thenardier laughs at him. He’s lacking some teeth at the sides. “Shut them up the Patron-Minette way,” he says with a vicious grin.

***

Enjolras can’t get ahold of Combeferre. It’s five thirty in the morning on the day of the protest and he’s finally decided that he has to warn the ABC that Thenardier is plotting, but Combeferre isn’t answering his phone.

The rally is due to start at sunrise and assuming Combeferre is still involved with the ABC - which he must be, if even Grantaire is - he should be there by now. Which means he should be answering his phone.

Maybe he’s just ignoring Enjolras. That would honestly serve Enjolras right after all these years of ignoring him.

Enjolras gives it five more minutes and three more aborted phone calls, then jumps up from his bed, where he’d only been pretending to sleep, and gets dressed.

There’s a moment where he hesitates in front of his wardrobe. He used to own a bright red hoodie that he wore to every protest in order to attract the attention of both the crowd and the police. He threw it away years ago and he hardly ever goes anywhere but work, anymore, but he can hardly wear a suit to this.

In the end, he finds a very old Che Guevara t-shirt that someone, he thinks Bossuet, gave him as a joke and pulls his washed-soft university hoodie over it. It feels strange to be preparing for a protest again. It makes his stomach ache with sudden fear.

He leans back against the wall and reminds himself, over and over, that he won’t be taking part in this one. He didn’t organise it and he won’t be leading it. No one’s going to get hurt because of him. With any luck, he’ll be able to stop anyone getting hurt, at all.

Five minutes later, he’s out of the door and crossing the street to the metro. It’s more or less empty at this time of day, only a few red-eyed business people, and a group of young people dressed similarly to Enjolras, who might be heading to the same place he is.

They catch his eyes, looking him over. In another life, Enjolras would cross the carriage to sit with them, try to get them to join the protest, even if that hadn’t been their original destination.

This time, he looks away, looks down at the ground between his feet, and tries not to think about anything at all.

***

The construction area is a riot of people, flags and placards. A lectern has been set up near a row of parked bulldozers, but no one has started speaking yet.

Everywhere Enjolras looks, he can see people - mostly young but some much older - with smiles on their faces, excited to try to make a difference. He wants to tell them all to go home, to go back to their families, but all he can do is watch. He feels oddly detached as though he’s seeing this all in a dream.

Keeping to the edges of the growing crowd, he makes his way around the construction area. The last time he was here, he was wearing a hard hat and trying to persuade Monsieur Thenardier that it was illegal to fire his workers for joining a union. 

This time, he pulls his hood up to obscure his face and squelches through a half-inch of muddy sand.

He hears the Amis, before he sees them. He’d recognise Courfeyrac’s loud laugh anywhere, and underneath it is the familiar hum of words that can only be Combeferre.

Enjolras pulls to a halt, hunches his shoulders and looks around from under his hood. They’re ten metres away from him, shielded from the drizzle that’s falling by the broad side of an idle JCB. 

Combeferre is hardly visible, blocked from sight by the others. He’s right in the middle of the group, handing out clipboards and saying something that makes them all laugh. Courfeyrac, leaning against the wheel of the JCB, looks much the same as he did the other day, albeit dressed more casually. Jehan is tucked under an umbrella between Joly and Bossuet, and it’s great to see them all, of course it is, but Enjolras feels rooted to the spot.

How can he speak to them, having left them the way he did? Will they even want to speak to him? Will they even listen?

He starts to turn away. He isn’t giving up, but perhaps he can give himself a moment to regroup. Before he can move anywhere, his foot gets stuck in the mud, he trips, and collides with someone coming the other way.

“Woah, careful,” laughs the man who catches him. “Don’t wanna faceplant in this goo, dude.”

The voice is familiar and when Enjolras looks up, he finds himself face-to-face with Bahorel, the tattoo artist he met the other day. The one who directed him to Grantaire’s shop.

“Apologies,” Enjolras says, stepping back more carefully this time. “Um. Are you with the ABC?”

Bahorel’s dark eyebrows rise. There’s a carefully shaved line bisecting one. “Oh, hey, it’s you from the other day. Ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” says Enjolras, who used to question everything, but has fallen out of the habit recently. “But _are_ you with them?”

“Sure,” Bahorel says, folding his arms. “Want an introduction?”

“No,” Enjolras says, far too quickly. “No. That’s fine. But I need you to pass on a message. Can you do that?”

“They’re literally just there.” Barohel points over his shoulder. “Come on.”

Panic plants Enjolras’s feet more firmly than any amount of mud would. “You need to tell them that there’s going to be violence,” he says, and something about his tone must get through, because Bahorel’s bemused expression falters. 

Still, Bahorel only shrugs. “We can handle violence.” He says it as though he might enjoy it.

“Not this kind,” Enjolras manages tightly, while his mind tries to replay memories of blood and chaos, screams and the crack of gunfire. He reaches out, puts his hand on Bahorel’s arm. “Please. _Please_. There’s a plan to insight violence, to make this protest look militant. You need to call it off, before anyone gets hurt or your overall goal is undermined.”

“Who are you, exactly?” Bahorel asks slowly. “Why should we trust you?”

Enjolras swallows. “Tell them, tell any of them, please. I’m sure they’ll listen or - ” He can tell he’s losing this argument, that he’s going to have to give his name. 

Before he can take the plunge, someone smacks Bahorel on the arm, says, “Crap, am I late, the fucking bus wasn’t… _Enjolras_?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, more relieved than he can say. “I’ve given Bahorel a message; can you please make sure that everyone listens. _Please_.”

“I, uh, sure, but wait,” Grantaire says, looking half-asleep and very confused.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Enjolras says. He can hear noises behind him. If the others are setting up, it’s almost too late. “Please make them listen.”

“Sure,” Grantaire says again, and that’s all Enjolras can wait to hear, before he flees.

***

Enjolras calls in sick for the first time he can ever remember.

He sits on his barely-hospitable sofa, mechanically eating dry cereal, eyes glued to the local news cycle. The longer times goes on without any mention of the protest, the more hopeful Enjolras becomes.

A regular, small-scale protest wouldn’t make it onto the news, but a violent uprising would; Thenardier would make sure of that.

His phone rings just after lunch and for once, he answers it willingly. 

“Oh. Hey,” says the person other end, sounding almost startled. “Enjolras?”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks. He hadn’t recognised the number, and he isn’t sure he’s ever spoken to Grantaire on the phone before. “Did it work? Did they listen?” _Is everyone okay?_ is what he truly wants to ask, but he’s too afraid of the answer.

“It worked, they listened,” Grantaire says. “You were right, some goons tried to make trouble, but we all stayed super calm and when that didn’t put them off, we ended things early.”

Relief washes over Enjolras so quickly that it makes his ears buzz.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“Eh, no, thank _you_ ,” Grantaire says. “You kind of saved the day. How did you know to do that, by the way?”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “Just luck,” he lies. “Anyway, thank you for letting me know, I really have to go now.”

“Oooh no,” Grantaire laughs. “No way. I have like, eight people all sitting here, staring at me, wanting me to ask you a whole list of questions about your life. If you hang up on me now, I’ll call you straight back and make you answer them.”

“I…” Enjolras tries, then trails off when the words stick in his throat.

Grantaire laughs again. Was he always this easily amused? “Meet me for a drink, this evening.”

“What? Why? No,” Enjolras says automatically.

“Aw, now you’re hurting my feelings,” Grantaire says. 

“I’m sorry, I am, but no,” Enjolras says and pulls the phone from his ear, ending the call as fast as he can. His heart is pounding. It’s still pounding moments later, when he gets a text from the same number Grantaire called on.

It’s an address and a time: 8 pm.

He’s picked a bar in La Défense, because he must think Enjolras is at work today. 

_I’m sorry, I can’t_ , Enjolras replies.

Grantaire’s response is immediate: _See you then ;)_

Enjolras groans but despite himself, he is a little amused. _No_.

 _xoxo_ , is Grantaire’s only reaction. Enjolras suspects he’s not being taken seriously.

***

Enjolras goes, of course he does. If his former friends have a list of questions about his life, he has one just as a long about theirs. Maybe seeing Grantaire will be cathartic. Maybe he’ll finally be able to move on.

Humiliatingly, Enjolras spends far too long dithering over what to wear, then eventually settles on a suit. It will maintain the illusion that he went to work today, if nothing else.

He meets Grantaire at a small bar near the metro station. It’s raining again today, and Grantaire’s black beanie is soaked through, the curls underneath flattened.

“Ugh, hi,” Grantaire says, ringing out his hat onto the dark stone floor. “Sorry, I’m late; have you been waiting long?”

It takes Enjolras a moment to respond. He wasn’t expecting smalltalk, but what he was expecting, he can’t say. “No. No. Hardly any time.”

“Cool.” Grantaire swings up onto the bar seat opposite Enjolras. Enjolras has managed to secure them a very small table in the corner, small enough that their knees touch, while Grantaire gets settled.

“My round first,” Enjolras says, sliding down onto his feet. “What can I get you?”

Grantaire watches him through slightly narrowed eyes, as though Enjolras is a book he’d like to read, if only it would come into focus. All he ends up saying is, “Zero Riesling or a Pierre Chavin Zero.”

Enjolras echoes the words back to him, since they mean nothing to him, and Grantaire nods. Trust him to order wines Enjolras has never even heard of.

There’s a queue at the bar but Enjolras doesn’t mind the wait. It gives him time to come up with innocuous questions that he can ask Grantaire, if they truly are going to be doing smalltalk.

When he returns to the table, he’s feeling much more settled.

“They didn’t have a Zero Riesling, so I got you a regular one instead. Is that okay?”

Enjolras sets the glass down in front of Grantaire, who stares at it for a solid ten seconds, eyes very wide, before standing up abruptly.

“Back in one sec,” he says, before picking up the glass and taking it back to the bar. Enjolras watches him speak to the barman, his shoulders noticeably tense.

When he returns to Enjolras, he’s clutching a pint glass of cola in a somewhat white-knuckled way.

“Sorry,” he says, sinking back onto his stool and giving Enjolras a rueful smile. “Sorry. I totally forgot you wouldn’t know.”

“Know what?” Enjolras asks. “Did you have to pay for that? Let me pay you back, it was my round and I didn’t get what you asked for.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “They swapped it for me; they were very nice.” He takes a sip of his cola, sighs, and puts down the glass. “Zero Riesling is non-alcoholic, so replacing that with actual wine doesn’t really work, you see.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.” Enjolras feels like a fool. “I thought it referred to the sugar content, like a Coke or a Sprite Zero.”

“Totally understandable.” Grantaire waves a hand to quiet him. “Like I said, I forgot you didn’t know that I’m sober now.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. That hadn’t been on his list of potential conversations. “Um. How long?”

“Four years last week,” Grantaire says, with a small, self-deprecating shrug.

“That’s amazing,” Enjolras says, then frowns. “We were still in touch four years ago.”

“Mmhmm, but I was keeping it quiet. I was pretty sure I was going to fail and I couldn’t have had you all judging me or feeling sorry for me or whatever.”

“We wouldn’t have,” Enjolras say automatically. “At least, the others wouldn’t have. Surely?” That gets him another confused look. He’s already tired of being treated like a puzzle. 

“You’re different.”

“Sorry?” Enjolras asks. “Or thank you?”

Grantaire hums. “Yeah. I don’t think I like it.”

“Look,” Enjolras says, and clears his throat. “I’m assuming you invited me here to talk about the protest, so can we just do that, so we can both get on our way?”

“Um, no, I’m here because your friends are worried sick about you and I’m the only one you seem prepared to talk to.” Grantaire makes an exaggerated face at that. “For some reason.”

Enjolras doesn’t have a response to that. Even he doesn’t know why speaking to Grantaire feels possible, but speaking to any of the others makes his chest constrict with a panic he can’t ignore. 

“Look.” Grantaire leans across the table, touches the backs of Enjolras’s clenched hands for just a second. “Let’s start again. How are you?”

“I’m… fine,” Enjolras says, hearing how stiff he sounds. “How are you?”

“ _Ça va? Ça va bien, merci. Et tu_?” Grantaire says in English, like a child just learning the language. 

Enjolras glares at him. “I was being _polite_. Forget it, I don’t care how you are.”

For some reason, that makes Grantaire smile at him. “Ah, there you are. Maybe you haven’t changed all that much, after all. And, in answer to your question, I’m also fine. Got my own tattoo studio, which you know because Bahorel told you like a week ago. Got to say, I was disappointed you didn’t stop by. I’d give you the friends and family discount.”

Enjolras refuses to blush, _refuses_. Sadly, his skin is so pale it’s almost translucent and his blood rarely listens to him.

“I wasn’t looking for a tattoo,” he says.

“No?” Grantaire asks. “So you were looking for me?”

“No,” Enjolras mutters, even though he knows he sounds ridiculous.

Grantaire touches his hands again. He’s slower to let go this time, waiting until Enjolras stops staring at the table and looks up at him, instead.

“You knew where the car dropped me off the other day and you came looking for me, because you wanted to warn us that the protest was rigged, right?”

Enjolras nods. It’s a lie, but he can’t explain that that decision came later, that the ABC leaflets that came to work sent him there, without explaining how he knows about them.

“And then,” Grantaire continues, “you couldn’t find me for some reason? So you waited until the day of the protest and came looking for us. Even though Combeferre calls you every week, so you could have just called him?”

“I did call him,” Enjolras says. “He didn’t answer.” He isn’t sure how he feels about Grantaire knowing about his and Combeferre’s odd way of not-quite staying in touch.

Grantaire nods. “You called him the morning of the protest, when he was too busy to check his phone, but there were days in between. Hell, Bahorel gave you my card, you could have called me.”

Enjolras plays with the label on his beer. He doesn’t want it, only bought alcohol because he thought that was what Grantaire was having. “I… don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on,” Grantaire says. 

The words might be harsh, but his tone is surprisingly gentle. It makes it both easier and harder for Enjolras to shake his head, say, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Honestly,” Grantaire says, still in that soothing voice. “Whatever you’ve got yourself into, it won’t be half as bad as some of the shit I’ve done. _Oh_ , is _that_ why I’m the one you’re speaking to?”

“No, of course not,” says Enjolras, even though maybe it is. He suspects it’s more because he and Grantaire were never the closest of friends, so he probably let Grantaire down the least out of everyone.

Grantaire waits a beat then taps his fingers on the table. “Okay, well, we’re talking in circles here. How about this, I talk shit for a while, and if you fancy having a real conversation, you feel free to interrupt?”

“All right,” Enjolras says, uncertainly. It might be a trap, or it might be a very generous reprieve. He’s willing to take the chance.

“Okay.” Grantaire leans back on his stool, hands folded across his stomach, as though he’s thinking. “I told you about my shop, so… Combeferre is a proper doctor now, all the way qualified.”

Enjolras looks up sharply. He wasn’t expecting Grantaire to talk to him about the others, but he’s not sure why not. “That’s good.”

“It’s amazing,” Grantaire corrects. “Joly graduated too, but he’s decided he wants to specialise in psychotherapy, so he’s gone _back_ to study more.”

“I thought he wanted to be a surgeon?” Enjolras asks, drawn into the conversation despite himself.

“He did. I mean, technically he _is_ , but he saw this amazing psychotherapist for his OCD, so now he wants to help people, like she helped him.” Grantaire pauses for a minute, like he’s thinking about what story to tell next. “Oh! He and Bossuet are still together, obviously, but now they’ve got this _awesome_ girlfriend too. Her name’s Musichetta; she’s terrifying and hotter than the sun.”

Enjolras watches him, torn between a desperate need to hear everything he has to say, and the feeling that he’s prying. He lost the right to know these intimate details years ago. “What else?” he asks, because he’ll always be weak for hearing that his friends are happy.

“Courf,” Grantaire starts, then pauses when Enjolras flinches. “Courf,” he says again, slower this time, “works for a ridiculously do-gooding law firm, run by this old dude who was in prison for like, twenty years. He met an intern there called Feuilly who we’ve adopted into our innermost ranks.”

Enjolras is distracted for a second by the realisation that Grantaire says _we_ and _our_ now, when talking about the ABC. He never used to do that. “Oh, yes?”

“Oh yes,” Grantaire says, dragging it out. “It’s a good job you weren’t around for the recruitment speech; he’s _exactly_ your type, you’d have had an aneurysm.”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras scolds, automatically looking around to check that no one he works with is here and could have heard that.

“What?” Grantaire grins. “It’s true. Anyway, Courf recruited Feuilly, I dragged Bahorel in, and Joly and Bossuet brought us Musichetta, so our ranks have swollen.”

“Clearly,” Enjolras says. He scratches more firmly at his label. “And, and Courfeyrac is… is well?”

“He and Jehan are engaged,” Grantaire says simply.

Enjolras drops his bottle. It rolls around on the table but he manages to grab it just before it spills. “Sorry. Sorry. They’re _engaged_?”

The kiss he witnessed was a surprise, but it’s even more of a shock to realise that Courfeyrac has fallen that deeply in love, that he’s contemplating marriage, and Enjolras wasn’t there for any of it.

“Jehan is more than good enough for him,” Grantaire says, apparently misreading Enjolras’s expression.

“Of course they are; Jehan is good enough for anyone,” Enjolras says quickly. It’s true and, if he remembers right, it’ll make Grantaire smile to hear it. It does.

“All right, now you give me something,” Grantaire says.

“I already gave you a glass of wine you can’t drink,” Enjolras says, pretending to misunderstand.

Grantaire shoots him a level, unimpressed look. “ _Tell_ me something about you that I can take back to your friends, who are all frantic for information and only didn’t come with me tonight, because I wouldn’t tell them where we were meeting.”

“Th-thank you,” Enjolras stammers, taken by surprise. “They wanted to come?”

“Every single fucking one of them,” Grantaire says. “But I read between the lines and cunningly deduced that you would have run away screaming.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what he would have done. Frozen and stopped breathing seems the most likely. “Thank you,” he repeats.

Grantaire kicks him lightly under the table. “So, come on. Employment and relationship statuses as the very least, please.”

“Employed,” Enjolras says, “and, uh, and single.”

“Employed as?” Grantaire asks, kicking him again. “Honestly, E, this is like pulling teeth.”

No one has called him _E_ in years. He used to reflexively say that he hated it, but that turns out to no longer be true. “I’m a lawyer too,” he says. “But a corporate one. I’m guessing Courfeyrac isn’t… that?”

“Very much not,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t sound judgemental but he must be, how could he not be? “So, you did graduate? Lamarque wouldn’t tell Courf whether or not you’d transferred or just quit.”

“I asked her not to,” Enjolras admits. “But yes, I transferred to Toulouse 1.”

“You left _Paris_?” Grantaire asks, either genuinely shocked or doing a good job at pretending. “I thought you were wedded to its streets. I thought your blood ran in the Seine.”

“It’s sunnier in Toulouse,” Enjolras says, the same non-answer he’s been giving for years.

“And you are a little hot house flower,” Grantaire agrees, nodding sagely.

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Don’t mock me.”

“Don’t lie to me, then,” Grantaire says, pleasantly.

Enjolras doesn’t have anything to say to that; it’s not as if he can defend himself. Instead, he puts his bottle down and stands up. “I should go,” he says. “It was… informative to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Grantaire says then sighs, drains his cola, and stands too. “Let me walk you to the metro, at least.”

“I… okay,” Enjolras says, since that seems safe enough. Except, he’d forgotten that when they met last week, they were both catching the metro from the same station, so it stands to reason that they’d both be going _back_ to the same station.

Grantaire clearly had not forgotten that, because he doesn’t look even slightly surprised - or repentant - when he hops onto the same line as Enjolras, and hops off alongside him.

“Now I guess you’ll have to let me walk you home,” he says. It’s raining again, but he doesn’t seem bothered. This is how a person ends up with a soaked beanie rather than an umbrella in the first place, Enjolras assumes.

“Then you’ll know where I live,” Enjolras says. “I can see what you’re doing, you know.”

“What am I doing?” Grantaire asks. “Do you really think I’m going to tell everyone where you’re apartment is, when you don’t want me to? If you really thought that, you wouldn’t still be standing here with me.”

That’s a fair point. Grantaire hasn’t done more than gently push him all evening. It’s possible he can be trusted.

“Look,” Grantaire says, toeing the ground. “I won’t if you really don’t want me to, but it feels weird just to part in the street like this. I’d offer to let you walk me home, but I live with Jehan and Courf, so you probably don’t want that.”

“I live this way,” Enjolras says quickly and turns on his heel.

Grantaire falls into step beside him. A moment later, he pushes his arm through Enjolras’s, slowing him down a little. “A stroll, Enjolras, a promenade; we’re not marching to war.”

“What on earth is the point of dawdling?” Enjolras asks, but he does as he’s bid, and they walk at a frustratingly slow snailspace, while the rain drips down his neck and off the end of his nose.

“Happy?” he asks, when they finally reach his apartment building.

“Ecstatic,” Grantaire says, which is when Enjolras realises that he’s held the door open for Grantaire, that he just expected him to come up to Enjolras’s apartment.

“Uh,” Enjolras says and wonders if it would be too rude to shove him back out into the night.

Grantaire is laughing very quietly, under his breath. “I’ve changed my mind,” he says, “perhaps I do like this new version of you a little, afterall.”

“Would you like to come up for a moment?” Enjolras asks. “I could at least lend you an umbrella.”

“But this is the only way my hat ever gets washed,” Grantaire says with such confused sincerity that Enjolras actually believes him for a second.

Then he rolls his eyes. “Oh, just come up, R.”

Grantaire takes a second to follow him and Enjolras can’t imagine what on earth he’s done to surprise him, when nothing else seems to have fazed him at all. It’s only for a moment though, then he catches up with Enjolras and makes a comment on every single thing they pass, from the colour of his neighbour’s doormat, to the light-up buttons in the lift.

“Did you always talk this much?” Enjolras asks, exasperated.

“Nope,” Grantaire says easily. “I used to be severely depressed and very drunk.”

“And now?” Enjolras asks.

“Now I’m moderately depressed and very medicated,” Grantaire says, catching the lift doors when they try to close. “This your floor?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, belatedly stepping out. His door is immediately opposite the lift shaft, so he leans against it and debates what he wants to say next. In the end, he goes for it. “I hope it’s not out of line to say that I’m… impressed?”

“Impressed?” Grantaire asks slowly. “With what?”

“With you,” Enjolras says, watching as that makes Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “You have your own business, you’re sober…”

Grantaire looks down. “You can’t be impressed with me, Enjolras. That’s like the sun being impressed with a ten watt lamp but, but thanks. Anyway, I didn’t really have any choice, a whole load of shit was happening and I needed to be useful. You know, the shit you haven’t asked me about?”

“I can’t ask you about that,” Enjolras says, before Grantaire can finish.

“I know,” Grantaire says, not showing any surprise. “I know. I get it.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, too busy feeling relieved that despite everything Enjolras remembers of him, Grantaire isn’t pushing. 

Grantaire swings his arms. “So I’d better go, make my report to your worried disciples.”

“What will you tell them?” Enjolras asks, almost certain he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“What do you want me to tell them?” Grantaire asks, looking up at him through his thick, dark eyelashes. 

“Something… I don’t know.” Enjolras shakes his head. “Something that’ll stop them worrying, I suppose.”

“Hm, yeah,” Grantaire hums. “The only thing that will do that will be seeing you.”

Enjolras’s throat constricts. Please don’t let Grantaire change his mind, please don’t let him push, after all. “I _can’t_.”

“I _know_.” Grantaire reaches out and touches his hands. It’s the same touch as in the bar, but it feels different here, in Enjolras’s doorway. Grantaire’s hands are cold, but they’re soothing, and Enjolras finds himself gripping them back.

After a minute, Grantaire clears his throat. “About that umbrella?”

“Yes!” Enjolras says, far too loudly to be appropriate. He unlocks his door and leans in to grab an umbrella from the coat stand. It would be easier, if he turned on the lights, but if he did that, Grantaire would be able to see into Enjolras’s flat. If he did that, who knows what terrible things he’d deduce.

“Of course it’s red,” Grantaire laughs, taking the umbrella when it’s pushed into his hands. “Of course it is.”

“It’s my favourite colour,” Enjolras says, then stops, frowning. He’s almost certain they’ve had this exact same conversation before.

Grantaire smiles, like he was thinking the same thing. 

Being around Grantaire has never felt like being with the rest of the ABC, and it still doesn’t. Their relationship always was - and apparently still is - based on bickering and teasing each other. It was fun then and it’s easy now, so much easier than Enjolras ever imagined a reunion like this could be.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, honestly.

Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “Aw, E,” he says, but it’s not as mocking as Enjolras would have expected. He reaches up and cups Enjolras’s cheek with one hand, his thumb strong against the corner of Enjolras’s eye.

He gives a little quirking smile.

Enjolras shivers, not all sure what’s happening, and lets his eyes fall closed. He can’t remember the last time anyone really touched him.

They stay frozen like that for a long moment then Grantaire drops his hand and steps back. Enjolras blinks his eyes open, startled by how bright it still is in the hallway.

“I, uh, I only meant to say hi,” Grantaire says.

“Right, right of course. Of course. I’m… sorry?” Enjolras asks, not at all sure what he’s apologising for. 

Grantaire’s eyes scan his face as if he’s once again trying to read him. “But if you wanted. _Do_ you want?”

Did he? Enjolras didn't know what he wanted except that there was a moment when Grantaire was touching his skin, when he'd craved it, craved more than just one touch.

“I want,” he says and leaves it to Grantaire to decide what that means.

Grantaire kisses him. It’s hard and fast like a challenge and then he steps back, eyebrows raised as if to say, _Well?_

They’ve kissed before; Enjolras probably kissed all his friends at one point or another, but this is different. Enjolras hasn’t been kissed for four years. Enjolras reaches for him, takes two handfuls of his wet hoodie and reels him in.

Grantaire laughs into this kiss then groans into the next. There’s a clatter as Enjolras’s umbrella hits the ground, but he doesn’t care. Grantaire’s mouth is warm. Grantaire is a living, breathing human being who knows everything Enjolras has done and still wants to kiss him.

“Inside, fuck, let me inside,” Grantaire says and pushes him backwards into the flat. They trip over the coat stand, Enjolras’s recycling, the bag of reusable bags he keeps on the back of the door handle.

None of it stops Grantaire, who seems to have a definite trajectory in mind, despite never having been here before. Enjolras lets him lead, too busy kissing and pulling at Grantaire’s hoodie to care where they end up.

They wind up in the kitchen, the lights still off. Enjolras falls backwards when he's pushed, the kitchen chair coming up to meet him and Grantaire climbs into his lap immediately after.

Enjolras scrambles at Grantaire's clothes again, finally getting his hands under Grantaire's damp layers. His skin is shockingly hot to the touch, and Enjolras can't help making fists, Grantaire's skin giving under the bite of Enjolras fingernails.

Grantaire moans loudly. “Is that what you like? Or is that what you like done to you?”

It's the second one. It’s definitely the second one. Enjolras doesn’t know how to answer and doesn't get a chance because Grantaire pushes him again and this time the chair falls.

The back hits the sofa, saving them from hitting the floor, and their kisses turn frantic as they scramble up from the chair and onto the cushions. Grantaire’s hoodie ends up on the floor, Enjolras’s jacket and shirt and tie following.

“What do you want?” Grantaire asks, fingers working the buttons of Enjolras’s trousers open.

“This. More. _More_ ,” Enjolras demands. It’s been a handful of minutes, maybe not even that long. If they stop, Enjolras might come to his senses. He doesn’t want that; he wants to be _touched_.

Impatient, Enjolras tears open his own flies then stares at Grantaire until he does the same. Grantaire isn’t wearing underwear, Enjolras is, but it’s Grantaire who groans like the sight of Enjolras’s plain black briefs is the hottest porn.

He slides off the sofa and down onto his knees, pulling Enjolras’s trousers and underwear down just far enough then sucks him into his mouth.

Enjolras gasps, icy-hot fire in his belly. He puts his hands on Grantaire's shoulders, but Grantaire grabs them and puts them in his hair, so Enjolras slides his fingers through curls and holds on.

It’s been so long that it’s possible anything would feel like the best Enjolras has ever had, but through the haze behind his eyes, he’s pretty sure that Grantaire is excellent at this. He sucks and nips and teases, his fingers on Enjolras’s thighs, his balls, the skin behind it.

Enjolras makes a noise at that, head thrown back, and kicks his clothes the rest of the way up, canting his hips in a way he knows leaves no room for doubt.

Grantaire pulls off with a slurping sound. “Is that what you want?” he pants. “Where's your lube?”

Enjolras doesn't have any. He has condoms but only because that's a sensible precaution. They might be out of date.

“It doesn't matter,” he groans. “Please.”

Grantaire bites the inside of Enjolras’s thigh, laughing when Enjolras nearly kicks him. “Not without lube,” he says, then strokes Enjolras’s other thigh soothingly. “Next time.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what sort of expression he makes, but Grantaire’s resolve softens a little. 

“It’s okay, it’s still going to be good,” he promises.

He sucks hard on his own finger then pushes it gently against Enjolras entrance. Enjolras tries to relax but he's painting too hard, too keyed up.

Grantaire pushes and the tip pops in and Enjolras gasps. It burns and he wants it and he hates that he won’t get more because he doesn't have lube and Grantaire is a good person.

Grantaire sucks harder, a relentless pull, while his other hand cups Enjolras balls. It's an endless cycle of pain and pressure and gentleness and it's Enjolras undoing. He comes with an indrawn breath that rattles through his chest and leaves him gasping.

“Aw, I was hoping you’d scream,” Grantaire says, before climbing on top of him. He takes Enjolras’s lax fingers and wraps them around his own erection. He’s hard and hot, slick to more than half way down without even being touched.

Holding a cock in his hand again is almost as good for Enjolras as having his own held was.

“There, shit, come on, squeeze,” Grantaire says, but he’s mostly doing the work himself, pumping through Enjolras’s pathetic attempts at a fist. “Enjolras, you’re not even trying.”

Enjolras rears up, kisses him hard, and squeezes him harder still.

Grantaire makes a ridiculous yelping noise that is still somehow incredibly erotic and comes all over Enjolras’s fingers.

They fall together, both of them panting into each other’s mouths. There’s sweat rolling down Grantaire’s face, his curls stuck to one cheek. 

Enjolras noses them away, goes to kiss him. His fingertips tingle. There's a smile on his face. A laugh lodged in his belly. He feels as though light is touching all his shadowed places for the first time in years.

Grantaire pulls away before their lips can touch, sits back with a groan and a rueful wince. “I’m too old for kneeling on wooden floors. Get some carpet, yeah?”

“There’s carpet in the bedroom,” Enjolras says, from beneath the arm he’s dropped over his face. He doesn’t mean it as an invitation, he’s too tired to know what he’s saying. It’s just a fact so he relays it.

“Ah, better not,” Grantaire says, standing up and starting to sort out his clothes. “It causes mass panic when I meet boys at bars then don’t come home.”

He never even got all the way undressed, Enjolras realises, watching him pull his hoodie back on. Enjolras feels suddenly very naked, but before he can reach for his own clothes, Grantaire pulls the throw down from the top of the sofa and lays it over Enjolras.

“Can’t have you catching your death,” he says. “You’re too pretty for that.” He leans down and kisses Enjolras’s cheek. “Do this again sometime?”

It’s almost certainly a brush off, maybe even a goodbye, but Enjolras is pathetic. “Yeah,” he says. “Let me know when you’re free.”

Grantaire grins at him. “Maybe I’ll hold you to that.” He starts to walk away then stops, turning back. “Don’t forget to let us know next time you mysteriously get insider information that’ll help the cause.”

“I won’t,” Enjolras says. He rolls onto his side, watching as Grantaire lets himself out. “Don’t forget the umbrella,” he calls, but Grantaire is already gone.

Shivering, Enjolras curls up on his side, tugging the throw up to his chin. He expects to lie awake dissecting every second of their conversation and everything that happened after. Instead, he’s asleep in seconds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some actions-short-of-a-panic-attack and a flashback featuring descriptions of blood / graphic injury.

“Are you feeling better?” Cosette asks, when Enjolras arrives at work the next day. 

_I engaged in a little corporate sabotage, then had an ill-advised, but excellent hook-up with an old friend._

“Yes, thank you.”

In the one day that he’s been away, Cosette seems to have taken over the majority of his office. Right now, she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by files and laptops, while Marius sits on Enjolras’s desk and watches her adoringly.

“That’s good.” Cosette tips her head back and smiles up at him. “Is it okay for me to be here? I needed to spread out somewhere I wouldn’t get trodden on.”

“Fine?” Enjolras says, even though he’s not entirely sure that it is. He’s very used to working in complete silence. He’s not at all used to working while Marius’s arse is on his day planner. “Marius. Up, please.”

“Sorry!” Marius says, hopping onto his feet. Instead of leaving, he sits down opposite Cosette on the carpet. “Cosette was just about to tell me what she’s learnt. It’ll be useful to you too.”

“No doubt,” Enjolras says. One good thing about them being here is that they’ve turned on the coffee machine. Enjolras slept so well and is feeling so magnanimous that he not only pours himself a cup, he also fetches one for each of them.

“Thank you,” Cosette says, while Marius stares at the cup and then at Enjolras as though some form of miracle has happened before his eyes.

“Cosette has been investigating the ABC,” Marius says. “You know, the group that designed the fliers you liked?”

“I didn’t like them,” Enjolras says automatically. “I simply said they were well done.” In his mouth, his first sip of coffee is turning to ash and he’s amazed at his mouth’s ability to keep speaking coherently without any input from his brain. “Cosette, I said I’d look into them.”

Cosette looks up at him, a little frown between her brown eyes. She’s far too perceptive, which is useful in her job but terrible for Enjolras. “I know, I know, but you were off sick and the partners wanted information. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras says, forcing a smile. “What did you find out?”

It can’t have been anything too damning. If the partners knew he was a founder member of the ABC, he’d be out on the street by now. Unless she knows but hasn’t told them yet. Unless she’s planning to hold her knowledge over him.

No.

Cosette wouldn’t do that.

“There isn’t actually a lot available to find out,” Cosette says. Enjolras doesn’t dare let himself relax. Not yet. “There isn’t much about them in any of the newspapers no matter how far back I go, and they aren’t a registered company or charity, which makes things harder still.”

“Maybe they’re new,” Enjolras suggests. “Maybe we’re worrying over nothing.”

Cosette shakes her head. “No, they’re not new.” She picks up her notebook and runs her finger down a list of bullet points. “It looks as though they started as a student group at the Pantheon-Sorbonne in or around 2013 and then carried on after graduation. The only time they made the news was in 2016, when police fired on a protest they’d organised.”

Enjolras curls his hands into fists, muscles contracting tighter and tighter until the bones in his fingers scream. 

“One of them was shot and neary died. The leader was arrested.” Cosette makes a small, disapproving sound through her teeth.

Marius gasps. Enjolras hears it from far away. “The police shot them _and_ arrested them? That isn’t fair.”

“The police aren’t fair, Marius,” Enjolras snaps. He knows he’s talking too loudly but he’s speaking over the echoes of screams in his ears. “Do you have the names, Cosette?”

If she knows, he might as well find out now.

“That’s been very successfully suppressed,” Cosette says. “Rich families saving their children’s reputations, I’d wager.”

Enjolras isn’t sure how to respond to that, other than to confirm that it’s true. Luckily, he doesn’t have to, because Marius interrupts, which is something Marius never usually does.

“If they’re the friends of the abased,” says Marius, who has been staring at one of Cosette’s print outs and has apparently just worked out the pun. “Then what are we?”

Enjolras tap-taps his fingers on his knee. “We’re not the good guys,” he says. “You do know that?”

Marius’s face twists. “We’ve never been _this_ bad before.”

Enjolras should let it go. The man they think he is _would_ let it go. He can’t let it go. “We have. This company has helped Patron-Minette commit crime after crime, and it’s not as if the rest of our client list are innocent angels. We work here, we’re complicit, even if the effects of our input are usually less obvious.”

Marius looks as if he might cry. Enjolras doesn’t know how Marius ended up here, but he knows that, more than any of the rest of them, Marius needs to escape.

Cosette slides her hand into Marius’s and squeezes. She looks at Enjolras for a long minute, head tipped to one side. Then she leans in and lowers her voice. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Patron-Minette are going to send someone in undercover to join the ABC. That’s why the partners wanted me to do the research; they don’t trust whoever Patron-Minette are sending and they want me to act as liaison.”

“Undercover to do what?” Enjolras asks, pulse loud in his ears. “To report back or to sabotage?”

“I don’t know,” Cosette says, shaking her head. “I haven’t been told anything else yet, but they want the members’ names at the very least and this is probably the easiest way of going about it.”

“But they won’t hurt them, will they?” Marius asks. “I know we do bad things, but we do them sneakily. We don’t, we’re not violent?”

“I’m really sorry,” Enjolras interrupts, because he can’t hear Cosette’s response to that, not if he wants the coffee he’s drunk to remain in his stomach. “I have a telephone meeting now; can I have the room?”

As soon as they’re gone, he closes the door and sits on the floor, his knees trembling. He pulls up Grantaire’s contact details, his number now carefully saved in Enjolras’s phone.

_Be careful of any new members, could be a plant._

He’s still sitting on the floor, when Grantaire replies.

_Like… a cactus?_

Enjolras thunks his head back against the door.

_R, be serious._

A moment later, he adds: _please_. He doesn’t need dignity; he just needs the people who used to be his friends to be safe.

***

_The roar of the crowd was deafening as Enjolras stepped up onto the makeshift stage. It joined the beat of his pulse, made the blood sing in his veins, and he grinned victoriously._

_“Got them fired up for you,” Courfeyrac yelled in his ear. He kissed Enjolras on the cheek and handed him the mic, before hopping down off the stage and into Combeferre’s congratulatory hug._

_They were more than fired up, they were ready to burn the whole city down. Good. Good, that was what Enjolras needed._

_“My friends,” he said, raising a hand for silence. He didn’t even get quiet, but that was fine. Why should they sacrifice their voices for his?_

_Out of the corner of his eye, he could see movement. It looked as though more police were arriving, joining the polite, friendly ones who had walked beside them on the march. It was unusual, but the Amis had permits that covered everything they had planned for today and, true, the crowd was louder than their usual, but there were no laws against shouting for your rights._

_Enjolras lifted his arms into the air, and finally an almost-calm descended._

_“My friends,” he said again. “Thank you.” He launched into the speech he’d been writing for weeks, speaking to a sea of upturned faces. All of these people were his friends and comrades, even if they’d never met before, and he wanted them all to know that._

_Something was happening at the edge of the crowd, but he didn’t let it distract him. Then someone yelled and someone else screamed and there was a crash of breaking glass._

_Enjolras paused, shooting a look at Combeferre, who shook his head, starting to move towards the noise._

_“Is anyone hurt?” Enjolras asked into the microphone._

_The police were shifting, the front line looking restless. This time, Enjolras saw something heavy fly over their heads, followed by another crash. Another._

_Some of the Amis were running forward, trying to calm people down. Enjolras watched as Jehan got in the way of an angry elbow and stumbled back, a hand pressed to their bleeding mouth._

_“Come on, you’re exposed up here,” Joly said urgently, materialising out of nowhere and taking Enjolras’s arm._

_“They won’t hurt me,” Enjolras said. “I’m not the one they’re angry at.”_

_Joly tried to tug him away, but Enjolras planted his feet. “You’re the locus; they’ll calm, if you stop.”_

_Enjolras glared down at him. “Am I supposed to cower in fear, while my friends fight my battles for me?” he demanded._

_Across the stage, he heard a laugh and looked up in time to see Courfeyrac coming toward them. “You’re so dramatic,” he said. There was a smile on his face, but the skin around his eyes was tense. “Come on, babe. Five minutes to calm everyone down then we’ll let you back on.”_

_“No,” Enjolras started, but the rest of his words were drowned out by a sudden, sharp _bang_ , a sound so loud it was almost quiet._

_Joly’s fingernails bit into Enjolras’s arm. A frown passed across Courfeyrac’s face. A hundred people screamed. Courfeyrac fell to his knees._

***

Enjolras wakes up in a rush, tangled in his bedclothes. He shoves them all away as he jerks upright, sweat rolling down his back and his lungs aching for air.

For a long moment he can’t breathe at all, then he sucks in one painful gasp, followed by another and another, forehead pressed to his drawn-up knees. There’s a scream lodged at the back of his throat, raw behind his tightly-clenched teeth. 

If he closes his eyes, he can see the way blood had started to seep between Courfeyrac’s fingers, hear Joly swearing even as he shoved Enjolras away and fell down onto the stage to try to help.

Enjolras hadn’t known what to do. Enjolras had been useless.

It’s early, but this is his third consecutive night of nightmares, so he knows he won’t be getting back to sleep. Instead, he showers, dresses and is halfway to the office before he remembers that it’s Saturday.

On a normal day, he might feel chagrined, but today, he just feels lost. There’s no point going home and working from there, since he didn’t realise it was Friday yesterday and forgot to pick up his files.

The only thing for it is to go into work anyway. He doesn’t have to log his hours, if the partners baulk at the overtime; he just needs something to do.

There’s a light on in his office, when he arrives. It’s entirely possible that he was too out of it yesterday to remember to turn it off, but surely security or the cleaners would have dealt with it?

Pressing his palm to the half-closed door, Enjolras gives it the lightest of pushes. He’s just being cautious, he doesn’t really expect to find anyone in there. Which is why he and Cosette give twin yells of alarm when they suddenly come face to face in his doorway.

“Oh my goodness, Enjolras,” Cosette gasps, pressing her hand to the centre of her chest. “What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_?” Enjolras asks, frowning at her.

Cosette waves a hand, as though it should be obvious, or as though she’s hoping he’ll come up with a reason for her. He honestly can’t think of one.

“I lost an earring yesterday,” she says, “and the office is on my jogging route, so I thought I’d come in and see if I could find it. It wasn’t in my office so I thought I’d try yours.”

She’s certainly dressed for a run, rather than for work, but her reading glasses are poking out of her jacket pocket and those seem like an odd thing to bring on a jog. Or maybe Enjolras is so frazzled by lack of sleep and nightmares that he’s seeing puzzles where they don’t exist. 

“Did you try Marius’s office?” he asks, trying to be helpful.

Cosette blushes. He doesn’t want to think about what she might have been doing in there that would make her lose an earring. “I was heading there next. Thank you, Enjolras.” She pats him on the arm and steps past him, Then she stops. “Why _are_ you here?”

Enjolras shrugs. “No other plans and I have a lot of cases to catch up on.”

Cosette looks as though she wants to say something, but she lets it go, pats him again and leaves him alone in his office.

Shaking his head at whatever just happened - and honestly too tired to care too deeply - Enjolras turns his coffee pot on and goes to power up his computer, while he waits. The computer is already on, the screen waiting there with a password half-entered.

Confused, Enjolras automatically presses _enter_. The screen judders and then an angry red message fills the screen.

_Error: Too many login attempt failures. Monitor will be locked for five minutes._

“But,” Enjolras says then stops, aware he’s about to argue with his computer. Still, there doesn’t seem to be any other option. “But I haven’t tried to log in, at all?”

Hurrying to his doorway, he leans out into the corridor. “Cosette?” he calls. Marius’s office is across the way from his, if she’s in there, she should be able to hear him. “Cosette, did you need to use my computer?”

His only answer is the sound of a door banging shut, way down at the other end of the hall.

***

Once Enjolras’s computer has deigned to let him in, he drinks far too many cups of coffee and loses himself in work. Patron-Minette aren’t his only clients but they’re the ones who have taken up the most time, so he’s fallen behind on the cases of other clients who are marginally more deserving of his attention.

He works until the sun starts to set and is thinking about getting up to fetch another cup of coffee, when his phone rings.

It’s Combeferre. 

It’s six p.m. on a Saturday evening, of course it’s Combeferre.

Almost as if he’s watching a stranger’s hand, Enjolras reaches out, picks up his phone and answers the call. 

It takes him two tries to say, “Hello?” and then he almost thinks he’s spoken too quietly, because Combeferre doesn’t answer for a long moment.

When he does, it’s with a soft breath and, “I thought you might answer this time.”

Enjolras has no idea what to say. Combeferre sounds exactly like he always has. 

Combeferre clears his throat. “In the past week, we’ve had three new recruits: a very angry girl, her very angry little brother, and a sleazy man in a top hat. Any idea which is most likely to be our spy?”

“The sleazy man,” Enjolras answers, without really needing to think about it.

Combeferre makes the noise he always used to make when he nodded. Enjolras had no idea he remembered that. “Oh good. Bossuet has taken a violent dislike to him, so he’s probably going to get punched soon; it’ll make things easier if he’s not a genuine supporter.”

“I… good,” Enjolras says. “That’s good.”

He still doesn’t know what to say. His head is spinning with discarded possibilities and his breath is unsteady in his throat. Mostly, he just wants to say, _Ferre_ , and have Combeferre fix the world for him.

The worst part is that if he asked, Combeferre might.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Combeferre asks. There’s something tentative about his words too, but at least he can find some. “I need help with something.”

Enjolras senses a trap, but he still asks, “With what?”

“Honestly, I need to look for some rare birds,” Combeferre says, then laughs at Enjolras’s surprised sound.

“Have, have you moved on from moths?” It feels impertinent to admit that he still remembers Combeferre’s interests. He can’t help feeling as though Combeferre will snatch it away, tell him that their shared memories aren’t his to reference anymore.

“Never,” Combeferre scoffs, apparently not offended, after all. “We think - well, we hope - that there are some ortolan nesting on the land Patron-Minette want to build their incinerator. Apparently, it’s illegal to disturb them during breeding or to deliberately destroy their nests.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “You shouldn’t tell me that.”

“Why?” Combeferre asks, sounding genuinely interested. “Are you going to tell someone?”

Feeling like a traitor to the office he’s sitting in, Enjolras shakes his head. “No.”

Combeferre hums as though that was the answer he expected. “Well, then. Are you going to come and help me look?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, swallowing. “What time?”

***

They meet just before sunrise on Sunday morning. It doesn’t disturb Enjolras’s sleep, because he still isn’t getting any.

Combeferre looks younger, somehow, than Enjolras remembers him. His dark hair is longer, and his glasses are trendier than they ever were before. Or maybe it’s just that they’re no longer taped together with sticking plaster across the bridge of his nose.

“Good morning,” he says, as though it’s only been a day since they last saw each other. “I brought tea.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, reaching to take the reusable cup that Combeferre passes him. Their fingers don’t touch, which he’s grateful for, just as he’s grateful that Combeferre doesn’t try to hug him.

Reuniting with Grantaire had been a shock, but it had been doable. Just standing here with Combeferre is taking a lot more courage than Enjolras can possibly justify it needing.

“The, uh, the birds?” he asks, after he’s taken a sip of tea. It’s how he likes it: strong and sweet.

Combeferre pulls out his phone and shows Enjolras a picture. It shows something that is definitely a bird. A small one, with a green head and a yellow chest. Other than that, Enjolras is none the wiser.

“This is an ortolan. Apparently they nest on the ground or in low growing bushes. I know that nature isn’t really your thing, but if we can prove that there are some here and get some pictures, we might be able to stop the incinerator being built.”

“I’m fine with nature,” Enjolras lies, even though they both know that nature makes him itch. What he means is that he’s fine with doing what needs to be done regardless of personal inconvenience, but that’s the sort of self-righteous thing he would have said before; he can’t bring himself to say it now.

“Right. Okay,” Combeferre says. “My mistake.”

Enjolras wants to kick himself. There was no need to be prickly, but also there’s no possible way he can apologise without opening himself up to deeper conversation. Instead, he clasps his free hand behind his back and tips his head down, looking into the undergrowth. It’s sparse here near the path, but grows dense very quickly. Even on a Sunday morning, it looks quietly forbidding.

“We need to be careful not to step on any nests, of course,” Combeferre says, pulling a stick loose from a nearby tree and using it to poke at the grass in front of them. “But Google says they won’t nest too near the paths.”

“Google says?” Enjolras asks, unable to resist turning to him. “I’m so glad we’re basing our nature walk on a reliable source.”

Combeferre pushes his glasses down his nose, looking at Enjolras over the thick rims. “Let me hear your in-depth knowledge of bird law, then.”

It takes everything Enjolras has not to give Combeferre’s arm a playful shove and then race him into the undergrowth. It’s what he would have done before, and he probably would have ended up with a face full of leaves for his trouble.

This time, he draws in a deep breath, gives Combeferre a polite smile, and steps onto the path that Combeferre has cleared. “This way?”

It takes Combeferre a moment to catch up but then he falls in step beside him, checking the bushes on the left while Enjolras checks the ones on the right.

They spend a quiet morning, drinking tea from their thermos mugs and searching for ortolans. The tea is satisfying but the search isn’t. The most they find is a deserted nest that could honestly belong to any kind of bird, and one small, white egg shell, lying cracked on the ground.

“There’s a reason I went into human biology,” Combeferre says, when they’ve circled around and returned to a clearing they’ve checked twice before.

Enjolras scratches at his cheek, where a leaf brushed him an hour ago and has definitely left a rash. “There’s a reason I didn’t go into any biology.”

Combeferre looks at him sideways. “Yes, because we had to dissect kidneys in Troisième and you nearly fainted.”

“That was Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, before he can stop himself.

Combeferre smiles slightly, as though he’s won something or maybe just as though the memory is a fond one. “No, Courfeyrac cried when his fruit flies died. It was definitely you who objected to the kidneys. Trust me, I remember everything I had to do to drag you both through science.”

Enjolras remembers it too. Combeferre never did their homework for them, but he did force them to sit with him while they did it, in the vague hope that they might pay some attention. Enjolras and Courfeyrac were both very much designed for the humanities.

Enjolras’s stomach gives a twinge of pain, a sharp longing bursting inside him. Combeferre smiles at him again, and this time there’s no doubt that he’s feeling fond. 

He sits down on a nearby log with a little sigh, looking up at Enjolras and raising his eyebrows. It’s most definitely a challenge.

Enjolras sits next to him, and is completely unsurprised when Combeferre hands him a cereal bar and pulls out a second thermos from his bag.

“More tea?” he asks.

Enjolras pulls his empty mug from his pocket and hands it over. “Thank you. This is an odd place to have brunch.”

“It’s a good job this is second breakfast, then,” says Combeferre, and hands him back his tea.

They sit in silence for a while. Enjolras and Combeferre have always been good at being quiet together, but it doesn’t make any sense that Combeferre is letting them fall into that pattern again, now. At best, Combeferre should be peppering him with questions, like Grantaire did.

At worst, he should be calling Enjolras names and leaving him alone in the middle of the woods.

In the end, it’s Enjolras who breaks. “Is this your grand plan?” he asks. “Sitting here and hoping to see a bird?”

Combeferre stretches out his legs, and flicks a fallen leaf off the knee of his jeans. “It’s the first stage in my grand plan. If we don’t see anything today, then the angry boy I told you about is prepared to come back and stake out the site overnight.”

A bird flutters down from one of the nearby trees and Enjolras’s heart leaps, but it’s only a pigeon. “How old is he exactly?”

“Twelve,” says Combeferre, making half-hearted shooing motions at the pigeon. It ignores him.

Enjolras frowns. “Are we… you, are you employing child labour now?”

“Only when the child is very insistent,” Combeferre says with a small smile that suggests a private joke that Enjolras has no hope of understanding. “Gavroche is remarkable and, anyway, Jehan is willing to camp out here to keep an eye on him.”

Enjolras turns to look at him, narrowing his eyes. “Was Jehan willing to come with you today, too?”

“Possibly,” Combeferre says, looking out across the forest rather than at Enjolras. “I didn’t ask.”

“Ferre,” Enjolras says softly. “Why did you ask me?”

“Grantaire is fairly certain you’re working for Patron-Minnette,” Combeferre says, which cuts through Enjolras like a knife and feels more like an accusation than an answer. “I thought it would be a good idea to show you what their development is putting at risk. Well, that and I just wanted an excuse to see you.”

Somehow, the second part is harder to deal with than the first. “I know what they’re putting at risk,” Enjolras says. “I know the cost of this development.”

“Hm,” says Combeferre, as if Enjolras has just confirmed something he already knew. “Are you going to help us stop it?”

Enjolras looks down at his tea. A tiny white blossom has fallen into it, so he spends some time lifting it out then blowing it away. “I don’t know,” he says at last, almost hoping Combeferre won’t remember what he’s responding to. 

Naturally, Combeferre does remember.

“Are you going to try to stop up?” he asks.

That gets Enjolras looking at him. “No. No, definitely not.”

Combeferre smiles. “Well,” he says. “It’s a start.” He gives Enjolras a moment, then reaches across the space between them and touches his knee lightly. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

Enjolras stops half way through an inhale, the air seeming to lodge in his chest. If he thinks about how much he’s missed Combeferre, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to walk away from him again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, instead. “I won’t ask you to forgive me, of course, but I am sorry.”

Combeferre squeezes his knee before letting go. “Will you come to our next meeting? The others would love to see you. If Courf could have made it over the stiles and across this rough ground, he’d be here now. He’s so cross that Grantaire and I have both seen you and he hasn’t.”

Enjolras starts to shake his head and finds he can’t stop, panic making his muscles disobey him. “I, uh. No, that’s not, a, uh. Not, a.” He trails off, pressing a hand to his sternum in the hope that he’ll get his breath back before Combeferre notices.

“All right,” Combeferre says quickly. He leans forward but doesn’t try to touch Enjolras again. He does make very deliberate eye contact though, holding Enjolras’s gaze until Enjolras can breathe steadily again. “All right, that’s fine, that’s not a problem.”

Enjolras closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, he’s determined to be normal. “Do ortolans even exist?”

Combeferre chuckles. “Yes, Enjolras. I didn’t make up an entire rare bird, just as an excuse to see you.”

Enjolras looks at him sideways. “So you didn’t miss me _that_ much, then.”

This time, Combeferre laughs loudly enough that it echoes around the clearing. Enjolras smiles, more than a little pleased.

***

Enjolras goes home after his adventure in the woods feeling happier than he has in a long time. He carries the warm glow of Combeferre’s company with him through taking a shower and grabbing a quick lunch. Then he sits down on the sofa, an entire Sunday afternoon stretching before him, and his good mood deflates like a popped balloon.

It’s not that he’s bad at being on his own, it’s just that he’s bad at being on his own when he remembers there are other options. Loneliness feels like such a self-centred emotion that he usually does his best to ward it off with work, but today he’s too tired to turn on his laptop and his skin is restless, reminding him that it doesn’t have to be like this.

There’s a half-formed plan in his mind, but he pretends that there isn’t, when he slips his shoes back on and shrugs into a jacket. 

Head back, hands at his sides, he marches out of his building, down the road and into the nearby pharmacy.

If the pharmacist thinks it’s odd that he’s buying nothing but a large bottle of lube on a Sunday afternoon, she doesn’t let it show.

Enjolras pulls out his phone as soon as he steps outside the pharmacy. The last text he received from Grantaire was a series of emoji penguins yesterday afternoon. He hadn’t understood it, so he’d just ignored it.

Now, he considers what to say for a moment then decides to go with the most straightforward option: 

_I bought lube._

Grantaire doesn’t respond immediately, although Enjolras still waits outside the pharmacy for longer than he should, just watching his phone screen and hoping a message will appear.

Eventually, he has to go home, and is back on his sofa, just starting to feel thoroughly foolish, when a reply finally comes in.

_Shiiiiiit sorry I was in the shower. Give me 30 mins?_

Enjolras sighs and sinks back into the cushions, stupidly relieved.

_Take your time_ , he says, even though he doesn’t mean that at all.

By the time Grantaire arrives, Enjolras has drunk another two cups of coffee and is potentially more than a little keyed up. He flings the door open, says, “That was thirty-six minutes,” and pulls Grantaire into the flat.

“Woah,” Grantaire says, laughing and catching himself against Enjolras’s chest. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Enjolras says, and kisses him. 

Grantaire makes a surprised noise into his mouth, and turns them around, pressing Enjolras back into the door until it clicks shut. His hands curl into Enjolras’s sweatshirt, holding him close for a long, messy kiss. 

When they finally break apart, Grantaire blinks at him and says, “Hello,” again, at a higher pitch than before.

“How did you take so long?” Enjolras asks, unzipping his hoodie for him. “Your hair is still wet.” 

“Sorry?” Grantaire asks. He lets Enjolras strip him down to his t-shirt, but baulks when Enjolras goes for his flies. “Bit of a welcome there. Last time you at least bought me a drink first.”

“A drink you couldn’t have,” Enjolras says, settling his hands on Grantaire’s hips, enjoying how solid he feels, even if he’s not allowed skin. He distracts himself by kissing down Grantaire’s neck.

Grantaire hums and gives him room to kiss down lower still. “Not really the point.”

Enjolras straightens up, pulling back to glare at him. “Fine, I probably have some wine somewhere. I can pour another glass for you to ignore, if that will fulfill my social obligation?”

Grantaire’s eyebrows go up and the teasing light fades from his eyes. “Wow, okay,” he says slowly. “Let’s just get on with it then, if that’s what you want. You bought lube? Cool. Do you want me to be the fuckee or the fucker?”

Enjolras has the uncomfortable feeling that he's upset Grantaire somehow. That wasn't supposed to be what happened at all. Enjolras wanted companionship, company, not another person that he’s hurt.

"R," he says, touching Grantaire's arm awkwardly, aiming for gentle. "I’m sorry if I was… brusque?"

Grantaire looks at him for a long moment then sighs. The force of it blows his curling fringe up and out of his eyes. He really is very handsome like this. Damp and dishevelled is an excellent look on him.

“Okay,” he says, squaring his shoulders. He reaches up and cups Enjolras’s face in his arm palms, makes him look him in the eye. “A couple of ground rules: one, I am happy and delighted to be your booty call; text me sexy things about lube whenever the fuck you want, and I will be here. But two, I’m also your friend, not a stranger off Grindr, so I’d appreciate a _Hi R, how’s your day?_ before we get down to business. Does that work for you?”

Enjolras feels his face heat up. “Of course,” he says, feeling honestly ashamed at himself. “Of course, yes, I never meant to make you feel used. I was just… I was eager? I suppose?”

Eager, and desperate to feel the way he felt the last time Grantaire touched him, but with no thought to how Grantaire might feel about it. How selfish of him. He has to do better.

Grantaire smiles slowly, a devastating smile that does its best to chase away at least some of Enjolras’s embarrassment. “Again, not objecting to you being eager for me. Now, where were we?”

He moves in to kiss Enjolras again, but Enjolras steps back and makes himself move away.

“I was going to offer you a drink,” he says. “Water? Tea?”

“Well, I brought that on myself,” Grantaire mutters, following him into the kitchen. “Water is fine.”

“A biscuit?” Enjolras asks a little desperately. Then he remembers that he doesn’t have biscuits. He doesn’t really have anything nice that he could offer a guest.

“Okay, I didn’t say I wanted you to turn into my grandmother,” Grantaire says. He takes the water Enjolras offers him, has a quick sip, then puts the glass down on the counter. “Your social obligation has been fulfilled, come here.”

“I haven’t asked about your day,” Enjolras protests weakly, but he steps into Grantaire’s waiting hands, anyway.

Grantaire curls his palms around Enjolras’s sides and kisses him carefully. “My day was great. It’s Sunday, so I’ve done nothing but nap and paint. Later, you should tell me about your frolic in the woods with Ferre, but right now, you should kiss me.”

Enjolras kisses him. 

He’s used to kisses that start slow and build up, but this one is hot from the moment their lips touch. Grantaire arches into him, reaches up to wrap his arms around Enjolras’s neck and keep him locked tight inside the press and slide of their kiss. 

“Fuck,” Grantaire mumbles, pushing his fingers into Enjolras’s hair. “Do you think it would have been like this before?”

Enjolras shakes his head, but it’s not a no, it’s an, “I don’t know. It never occured to me. Why didn’t it ever occur to me?”

Grantaire laughs, but it’s a little bitter. “You were too busy to notice mortals.” He kisses Enjolras again before Enjolras can respond, and this time, they don’t stop until they’re both breathing hard.

“Can I undress you? Now?” Enjolras asks, sliding his hands under Grantaire’s t-shirt. 

“You can,” Grantaire says, but he’s the one who ends up pulling it up and off, dropping it somewhere on Enjolras’s kitchen floor. 

Last time, everything happened in the dark, and Enjolras didn’t get to see much more than an impression of smooth skin. This time, with the pale evening light streaming in through the living room windows, he can see everything.

“Wow,” he murmurs, dropping his head to kiss Grantaire’s neck and take a good look down his body. Grantaire is broad and toned in the chest and shoulders, his olive skin decorated with black ink and the occasional bursts of colour.

“You’ve seen some of them before,” Grantaire says, either willfully misunderstanding or genuinely not knowing that he’s even more worthy of a _wow_ than his tattoos are.

“Only in passing,” Enjolras says, tracing his fingers over a curling vine that loops around Grantaire’s left nipple.

Grantaire breathes in shakily, pressing up into Enjolras’s fingers, so Enjolras takes the opportunity to rub his thumb back and forth over Grantaire’s soft, flat nipple until it draws in tight.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire complains. “Why are we doing this out here? Where’s your bedroom?”

It’s stupid that that makes Enjolras hesitate. He did his best to tidy the flat before Grantaire arrived, but he still feels very exposed, having him here and able to look around in daylight. Having him in the bedroom will make that ten times worse.

“Or the sofa, obviously?” Grantaire offers. “The sofa worked great last time.”

It did, but Enjolras has already treated Grantaire like an anonymous hook up once this evening. The least he can do is take him to a real bed.

“This way,” he says, hoping Grantaire will ignore the uncertainty in his voice.

“Ha, I knew you had one,” Grantaire says, following Enjolras down the short hall. “Others may think you sleep upside down in a belfry, but I knew different.”

Enjolras stops just inside his bedroom door and frowns back at Grantaire. “Others think I’m a vampire?” he asks.

Grantaire laughs, pulling him in against his bare chest. “I am literally just spouting bullshit,” he says. “Feel free to shut me up.”

“With my mouth?” Enjolras asks, leaning into do just that.

Grantaire hums against his lips. “Mm, or any other body part that seems appropriate.”

Between them, they get Enjolras’s sweatshirt and both of their trousers off before pushing and pulling each other down onto the bed. Then they’re horizontal and making out in just their boxers, and Enjolras feels as though he’s in his own body for the first time since… well, since the last time they did this.

Grantaire cups him through the cotton of his boxers, biting Enjolras’s chest when Enjolras arches up into the touch.

“You said you had lube?” he asks, holding Enjolras on the pleasant side of just-too-tight.

“Mm, yes, there.” Enjolras flings out a hand, pointing toward his dresser. “In the bag on top.”

“How is that a sensible place for lube?” Grantaire asks, biting him again. “Now I have to get up.”

“I’ll get it,” Enjolras offers, starting to sit up.

Grantaire pushes him back down with just enough force that Enjolras loses his breath. “You just lie there and look pretty,” he says. He stands, and gives Enjolras an appreciative once-over. “Or take your boxers off. That’d be even prettier.”

Enjolras isn’t sure about that. In his experience, penises are a lot of things but pretty is rarely one of them, and as much as he enjoys them, testicles are, objectively, ridiculous. Still, it gets them one step closer to his ultimate goal, so he obliges, leaving himself completely naked by the time Grantaire returns with the lube.

If Enjolras is honest with himself, he’s hoping Grantaire will give him another sign of approval, but Grantaire is apparently busy reading the instructions on the bottle.

“Um?” Enjolras asks, resisting the urge to cover himself with a hand. “If you’re not sure how that works, I’m happy to explain?”

Grantaire looks over the top of the bottle of him, giving him a withering look. At least, it starts off withering, then his eyes take Enjolras in and his expression turns hot instead, mouth falling slightly open.

“I,” he says, before clearing his throat, shaking his head at himself. “Did you know you bought warming lube?”

“Is that bad?” Enjolras asks. He only grabbed the red bottle off the shelf, because there were a lot of varieties and it’s his favourite colour.

“It’s fascinating,” Grantaire pulls the plastic wrap off the top and drops it onto the floor before squirting a little lube onto his fingers. “Tell me how this feels,” he says before reaching down and rubbing a swipe of lube onto Enjolras’s nipples.

For a moment, it only feels slick, then a hot, tingling sensation starts to radiate outward from the very centre of Enjolras’s nipple and his gasps.

“Good?” Grantaire asks, rubbing a little more onto the other side of Enjolras’s chest.

Enjolras bites his lip against the soft sounds he wants to make. “Good,” he says. As well as arousing, it feels warm, reassuring, but those aren’t erotic words, so he doesn’t share them.

Grantaire climbs back onto the bed and straddles him, leaning down to kiss him. “You’re incredibly hot,” he says. “Did you know that?”

Enjolras shakes his head, lifting his head, wanting another kiss.

Grantaire kisses his mouth, the corner of his lips, his cheek, until Enjolras’s face feels raw all over from his stubble.

“You never answered my question earlier,” Grantaire reminds him. “Do you want to fuck me, or do you want me to fuck you?”

Enjolras would have thought that was very obvious. Maybe Grantaire just wants him to say it. “Me,” he says. “You in me.”

Grantaire smiles as though he very much did already expect that, and Enjolras would hate him for making him say it except Grantaire is warm and touching him and _here_ , so it’s impossible to feel anything but grateful.

“We can do that,” he says. “In a minute though. I want to kiss you a little more first.”

“Why?” Enjolras complains. “Kiss me when you’re in me.”

Grantaire shudders, his dick twitching against Enjolras’s thigh. “Don’t say things like that,” he scolds. He props himself up on his elbows and looks down at Enjolras, a mock-serious expression on his face. “You bought _warming lube_ , E, do you know how fast that’s going to make us both go off? I want to take my time with you first.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “That’s sensible.” He doesn’t want to go off quickly; he doesn’t want this to be over. “I’m sorry I got the wrong thing.”

“What?” Grantaire asks, frowning at him. “You didn’t. This is good. This is _so_ good.” He slides against Enjolras, kissing down his neck and then his chest until he can put his mouth over one of Enjolras’s nipples.

The intense feeling from the lube had started to fade, but the combination of Grantaire’s cool breath and warm mouth ratchets it right back up again. 

Enjolras swears, clutching at Grantaire’s shoulders, while Grantaire laughs and bites him. He’s very fond of biting. Enjolras wishes he could say he objects.

Enjolras loses track of how long they make out for. All he knows is that dusk has started to draw in before Grantaire sits up and runs a gently hand over Enjolras’s stomach.

“How do you want to be?” he asks, carding his fingertips through the pale hair below Enjolras’s navel.

“Like this,” Enjolras says, spreading his legs so there’s no mistaking his meaning. “Just like this.”

Grantaire gets out of his underwear at a truly gratifying speed then spends a couple of moments digging through his abandoned jeans.

“What are you _doing_?” Enjolras asks. “Am I not inviting enough for you?”

“Any more inviting and I’ll have a stroke,” Grantaire promises. He sits up, clutching a foil wrapped condom and wearing a triumphant smile. “Not that I don’t trust you to have some, but you didn’t even have lube last time.”

Enjolras reaches from him, taking the condom from his fingers and pulling him down onto the bed and onto Enjolras.

“Impatient?” Grantaire asks, a little breathless.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. He wants to roll them over, so he can pin Grantaire to the bed and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere else, but then he’d be on top and he really doesn’t want that; Grantaire’s weight on top of him is perfect.

Grantaire’s smirk slides into a gentle smile. “Good,” he says. “Ready?”

He doesn’t wait for Enjolras to answer, which is useful since Enjolras would probably have sworn at him. He just kisses down Enjolras’s body and nuzzles at his stomach then his groin, while he rubs slick fingers over Enjolras’s entrance.

The lube felt interesting, good, on Enjolras’s nipples, but the sensation is ten times stronger down here. He gasps, spreading his legs wider, while his skin throbs and his muscles relax almost instantly, letting Grantaire’s first finger slide inside.

Just as Grantaire had predicted, it’s quick from there on. Enjolras can’t keep still, the combination of the lube and Grantaire’s clever, _clever_ fingers lighting him up all over. 

“Now,” Enjolras begs. “Now. Now, _now_.”

“Sure, yes, I’m here, I’m on it, don’t worry,” Grantaire promises. He pulls his fingers free, which makes Enjolras want to protest, except he asked for this.

“Wait,” he manages, just before Grantaire rolls the condom on. With shaky fingers, he finds the lube and pumps some out onto his palm. “Come here.”

“Condom first,” Grantaire reminds him, but Enjolras has a plan and that’s not it.

He shakes his head. “You won’t be able to feel it so well. You should get to feel this.” 

He wraps his slick hand around Grantaire’s bare cock, just one quick slide, just enough to make Grantaire writhe into his fist, hiss, “Fucking _fuck_ , did you come back into my life just to kill me?”

“Condom now,” Enjolras tells him, holding his own legs wide while Grantaire gets ready.

“Oh, ‘condom now,’ he says,” Grantaire mutters. “Like I’m not about to fucking _come_ , _shit_ that stuff is good.”

Luckily, Grantaire can complain and roll on a condom at the same time, and it’s only a minute more before he’s pushing into Enjolras. He goes slowly, so much slower than Enjolras wants or needs. It’s clearly an effort for Grantaire too, from the way he huffs and his arms shake on either side of Enjolras.

“Faster, please, faster,” Enjolras hears himself babble and can’t make himself stop.

“If I go any faster, I’m going to come,” Grantaire tells him, clipped. “Just. Just patience, patience, please.”

Enjolras isn’t good at patience, but he really does try and his reward is the spark of absolute relief that shoots through him when Grantaire is finally all the way inside him.

“ _R_ ,” he gasps, clamping his thighs around Grantaire’s hips and rocking up to meet him.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Grantaire agrees, pushing up the bed and kissing him hard. “God, you’re so hot. You used to be on fire, do you remember? Come on, gorgeous, burn for me.”

Enjolras knows that the noises he’s making are unholy, but he can’t stop. “Fuck me,” he groans. “Please.”

Grantaire’s hips buck forward into him. “Fuck you or screw you?” he pants.

“What’s… what’s the?” Enjolras shakes his head on the pillow, too distracted by everything else happening to his body to even understand the question.

Grantaire pushes into him again, pulling back and drawing a moan from the back of Enjolras’s throat, before he slamming in again. “That’s fucking.” Buried deep inside Enjolras now, he circles his hips, grinding his cock into Enjolras’s prostate and sending sparks from his collarbones to the tips of his toes. “That’s screwing.”

“Fucking shit _that_ ,” Enjolras says and feels his whole brain white out when Grantaire does it again.

Enjolras quickly loses track of everything that isn’t Grantaire. He couldn’t with any certainty say where his own limbs are, but he knows where every part of Grantaire is, from the slide of his hairy legs against Enjolras’s to the way he’s trying to kiss Enjolras, even though Enjolras is doing a poor job of remembering how to kiss back.

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire laughs, as if he’s responding to something Enjolras has said. If he is, Enjolras has no idea what it is. He wraps his hand around Enjolras’s aching dick and that’s all it takes to send Enjolras hurtling through the tunnel to his orgasm.

Grantaire kisses him roughly through it, tongue deep in Enjolras’s mouth, muffling all the sounds Enjolras can’t hold back. 

As soon as Enjolras regains some control over his hands, he clutches at Grantaire’s back, slides his hands down and squeezes his arse. “Come on,” he says, voice shredded. “You too.”

Grantaire has his head bowed low, breath gusting warmly over all of Enjolras’s sensitive skin. “I don’t know that I can. Fuck. It’s fuck, it’s so much.”

Enjolras frees one hand to cup his face instead. “Come in me, R, come on.”

“Trying to kill me,” Grantaire mumbles, but he takes hold of Enjolras’s hand and presses it down into the bed above Enjolras’s head, lacing their fingers together as he starts to move again.

“You’re not the one whose arse is on fire,” Enjolras says, which has exactly the effect Enjolras hoping it would have, making Grantaire shake with laughter even as he tries to thrust.

“Shut up, oh my god, you’re completely - ” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras never finds out what he is because Grantaire makes a desperate noise, and he loses himself to fucking hard into Enjolras for a dozen short strokes before his muscles lock and he comes with a yell.

“There,” Enjolras says, satisfied, and turns his head so he can kiss the corded muscles in Grantaire’s forearm.

Grantaire wobbles for a second then collapses down onto him. “Oh my god,” he groans, shifting his hips just enough to pull out of Enjolras then going boneless. “Wow.”

Enjolras smiles and closes his eyes. He can feel and hear and smell Grantaire all around him and it calms his mind and his body to a startling degree.

“Hey,” Grantaire murmurs after some peaceful minutes. “Are you okay with post-sex cuddling or do you want me to leave?”

“Don’t leave,” Enjolras says, much more urgently than he meant to. He forces himself to relax back down into the pillow. It’s possible he just left nail marks in Grantaire’s fingers where they’re still holding hands. “I mean, there’s no need for you to go just yet. Unless you want to?”

Grantaire groans and flops down at Enjolras’s side, one arm stretched across Enjolras’s body. “I’m not sure I _can_ move,” he says. He reaches around with his free hand until he finds the edge of the duvet and pulls it haphazardly over them both.

“That’s okay,” Enjolras says, smoothing the duvet out so they’re both covered more evenly. “You can nap, if you want.”

“Mm,” Grantaire mumbles, apparently more than half way there already. “You too.”

Enjolras doesn’t think he will - he can’t even sleep at night, alone, what chance does he have of sleeping during daylight, with someone else there? - but he’s happy just to drift to the sound of Grantaire’s breathing.

Which is why it’s more than a little shocking to blink his eyes open again and find that night has fallen and Grantaire is snoring into the side of his neck.

Blearily, Enjolras reaches over to the bedside table, trying to find out what time it is. All he manages to do is knock his clock onto the floor and make Grantaire snort himself awake.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, genuinely disappointed to have disturbed the peace.

“Mm,” Grantaire agrees. He starts to snuggle in again then stops and pulls back, blinking at Enjolras. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey,” Enjolras says cautiously. “Sleep well?”

“Fantastically,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t show any inclination to leave immediately, just pillows his chin on his arm and looks at Enjolras curiously. “So how were the ortolans?”

Enjolras might be confused by the sudden change in topic, but he’s sleepy so it’s easier just to roll with it. “I’m not entirely sure they exist.”

Grantaire laughs. “Yeah, no, I’d say they were something Ferre made up, except I’m pretty sure my parents illegally eat them from time to time.”

Enjolras wrinkles his nose. “That means mine probably do too,” he sighs.

“Ah, rich people,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “What can you do with them?”

“Eat _them_ ,” Enjolras says automatically, adding, “What?” when Grantaire first blinks and then beams at him.

“I knew you still had your little anarchist heart buried deep in their somewhere,” Grantaire says, reaching out and putting his hand on Enjolras’s chest. He smiles. “Ah, there it is.”

“You’re ridiculous; of course I do,” Enjolras says and tries not to think about how long it’s been since he did anything even vaguely helpful to the cause.

“The others will be delighted to hear it,” Grantaire tells him. He winks. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell them exactly what we were doing when I found out.”

“Do they know you’re here?” Enjolras asks. It’s a Sunday evening; he should have realised that Grantaire might not be able to sneak away from home unnoticed.

“Of course,” Grantaire says, easily.

Enjolras feels himself blush but hopes they can both ignore it. “Do they know why?”

Grantaire has the grace to look just a little sheepish, this time. “I told Jehan,” he says slowly, “which means Courf knows, which means Ferre knows. And if Courf and Jehan know something, then so does Joly. So Bossuet also knows. I’m sorry?”

“Ugh, no, it’s fine,” Enjolras says, since there’s no reason for it _not_ to be fine. It just makes him feel very human that that many people know about his sex life, and feeling human makes him feel vulnerable. He hates feeling vulnerable.

Grantaire leans in and gives him an apologetic kiss on the cheek. “Sorry. Again. We haven’t got _less_ gossipy as the years have gone by.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Can I ask you something else?” Now that his mind has started firing again, it’s working overtime.

“Only if it’s about my sexual prowess,” Grantaire says. Whatever he sees on Enjolras’s face makes his smile fade. “It’s not about my sexual prowess, is it?”

“No,” Enjolras says, “although that is very impressive. No, it’s just that earlier, Combeferre said something about Courfeyrac not being able to walk over uneven ground, and I suppose I was wondering if you knew if that was because of…”

“Because he got shot in the spine?” Grantaire asks, taking pity on him. “Yeah, of course it is. They fixed him up pretty well, but he’s got nerve damage that makes him wobbly sometimes. His right leg especially doesn’t always work too well.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what expression shows on his face, but Grantaire hisses and presses close. 

“Oh no, don’t look like that,” he says softly. “It’s okay, he’s so much better than he used to be. Like, there was a time when he couldn’t walk at all, so really this is much… I’m not helping am I? I feel like I’m not helping.”

Enjolras shakes his head, not trying to answer the question, but just because it’s all he can think to do. It’s only when Grantaire starts stroking his fingers that Enjolras realises that he’s gripping his hand too hard.

“Do you, I suppose you need to leave soon?” Enjolras manages.

“Soonish,” Grantaire says, shrugging, “but not yet. I’m not recovered from all the sex, yet.” He lays back down, putting his head on Enjolras’s shoulder.

Whether that’s true or not, Enjolras isn’t sure. He just presses his face into Grantaire’s hair and is grateful not to be left alone with his thoughts just yet.

***

_Joly’s fingernails bit into Enjolras’s arm. A frown passed across Courfeyrac’s face. A hundred people screamed. Courfeyrac fell to his knees._

_Enjolras jumped, starting forward even as he tried to tell himself that this couldn’t possibly be happening._

_“Enjolras, let me through,” Joly snapped urgently, grabbing Enjolras’s arm and holding him back. Joly fell to the floor by Courfeyrac’s side, his crutches clattering down on either side of him._

_He’d need those, Enjolras thought, starting forward to collect them, only to stop when Courfeyrac made a loud, hurt noise. There was blood everywhere, coating his fingers, and pooling under Joly’s hands, when Joly tried to push Courfeyrac’s shirt up._

_“Ow, ow, shit,” Courfeyrac gasped, head lolling to one side. He sounded far away, which might have been him or might have been the blood rushing in Enjolras’s ears._

_“It’s okay,” Enjolras heard himself say, sinking down onto the stage beside Joly. “Courf, stop trying to touch, let Joly do his thing.” He took Courfeyrac’s bloody hands in his, pulling them up and away from his stomach._

_Courfeyrac moaned again and clutched at him. His expression flickered as his eyes met Enjolras’s, a feeble attempt at a smile twitching his lips._

_“Hey, don’t… don’t look like…” He broke off to gasp and tried to twist toward Joly. Whatever he was doing made Courfeyrac turn paler and look back to Enjolras. Enjolras couldn’t look at all._

_“Courf! What’s - ” Enjolras heard Combeferre arrive behind him. He sounded out of breath as if he’d run from the other side of the field._

_“Ferre. Here. I need you,” Joly cut in before Combeferre could finish his question. He was curt and crisp, like a real doctor, but Enjolras knew Joly and he could hear that underneath, he sounded terrified._

_“You’re fine,” Enjolras told Courfeyrac, trying to talk over whatever Joly and Combeferre were saying to each other. “You’re going to get to tell so many jokes about this.”_

_“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said, voice growing fainter. “Yeah, I’ve, I’ve always wanted to, uh.”_

_“Courf, we have to move you, I’m so sorry if this hurts,” Joly said. A moment later, Courfeyrac started to tip onto one side, toward Enjolras, as Combeferre pushed and Joly pulled._

_Enjolras grabbed Courfeyrac’s shoulder to help. He had to look this time, but what he saw made him wish he hadn’t. If the front of Courfeyrac’s shirt was blood stained, the back was a solid, sticky red all the way down to the hem. A large gash had been ripped in the fabric and through it Enjolras could see a pulsing, oozing hole, punched through his lower back._

_“Always wanted to what?” Enjolras asked, swallowing hard so he didn’t vomit._

_Courfeyrac’s eyebrows were drawn together in a dazed expression of confusion. “Say that something was just a flesh wound. Shouldn’t I be able to feel what they’re doing? Joly said, Joly said it’d hurt, but I can’t feel...”_

_He trailed off, still frowning. Before Enjolras could answer - or panic, panic was more likely - heavy hands fell on both of his shoulders and roughly jerked him back._

_Enjolras had a brief impression of a dark blue police uniform, then he was pulled to his feet and Courfeyrac’s hands slid out of his._

_Courfeyrac called out Enjolras’s name and Enjolras -_

\- wakes up alone in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Oblique references to depression and addiction recovery in this chapter.

Enjolras has a heavy, overtired ache in his sinuses before he even sits down at his desk. The cup of coffee he drank in the shower didn’t help and neither did the one he had on the metro, but he’s hoping that a third might just save him.

He skim-reads the email subjects in his inbox while he blows on the top of his mug, not really taking anything in. Then he frowns, and goes back to one dated eight p.m. last night.

> **From:** courf@jvj.fr  
>  **Sent:** 03 April 2019 20:03  
>  **To:** Corporate Law Team 
> 
> **Subject:** L’ABC
> 
> Dear Sir/Madam,
> 
> I am writing to inform you that JVJ Associates now represents the local community in the matter of the proposed Patron-Minette incinerator and development project.
> 
> We have several questions and points of order we would like to raise and I would be grateful if you could contact me at your earliest convenience.
> 
> Kind regards. 

Underneath was Courfeyrac’s full name, his direct dial phone number, his work address, every possible way to contact him.

“Of course,” Enjolras says aloud. Of course l’ABC would engage a solicitor and of course they would use Courfeyrac’s firm. He’s actually very proud of them; taking the legal route would have felt like defeat four years ago, but now it’s the safest and most sensible option available.

It’s also, unfortunately, the one most likely to bring his life crumbling down around his ears.

He minimises the email, so that he doesn’t have to think about it for a while longer, then opens his browser and searches for JVJ Associates.

It turns out to be exactly the sort of tiny, liberally-minded law firm that Enjolras would have expected it to be.

As far as Enjolras can see, the owner, a Jean Valjean, doesn’t practice law himself. When Enjolras goes to the ‘meet the team’ page, he finds only two lawyers: a smiling picture of Courfeyrac, with an effusive blurb underneath, and another of a broad, bearded man named Feuilly.

Embarrassingly, Grantaire is right: four years ago, Feuilly would have been exactly Enjolras’s type.

Enjolras takes a deep breath and pulls up the email again.

He doesn’t need to reply to it. He could ask Marius to do it. He _should_ ask Marius to do it.

> **Subject:** re: L’ABC
> 
> Monsieur de Courfeyrac,
> 
> I am the named lawyer for this case. Please send any questions directly to me.
> 
> Yours sincerely,  
>  Enjolras. 

His hands are shaking so hard that he misses the send button the first time he tries to click on it. Taking a deep breath, he tries again.

The moment the email disappears from his screen, he wishes he hadn’t sent it. But it’s too late. 

His coffee is cool enough to drink now, so Enjolras focuses his attention on that. He’ll do some work, he won’t check his emails until lunch time, everything will be just…

A reply pops up in the corner of his screen and hits his inbox before he can react.

> **Subject:** re: L’ABC
> 
> Monsieur Enjolras,
> 
> Perhaps we could meet to discuss?
> 
> I will make myself available at your convenience.
> 
> Yours,  
>  C. 

Enjolras stares and stares at that last line, a little prickle building behind his eyes. Then he thinks about actually meeting with Courfeyrac and pushes back from his desk with no clear direction from his brain. It’s the same instinctive response he’d make if an anvil had smashed down onto his computer.

He definitely should have let Marius handle this.

As though telepathically summoned by Enjolras’s alarm, Marius himself knocks on the door.

“Is everything all right?” he asks, eyeing Enjolras in a way that implies Enjolras looks at least half as wild as he feels.

“Yes. Uh. Yes, fine,” Enjolras lies. He notices he’s still clutching his mug and latches onto the excuse. “Just scalded myself a little.”

“Oh no, I hate that!” Marius says, clutching the folder he’s holding to his chest, all simple concern. “Can I get you some sugar?”

“Sugar?” Enjolras asks blankly. He knows he can’t get up and walk out of the office, keep walking until no one can speak to him, but that’s what he would most like to do.

“If you put it on a burnt tongue, it heals it right up,” Marius says. He smiles dreamily. “Cosette taught me that.”

Enjolras folds down onto the corner of his desk then hides his trembling hands between his knees. “She’s a genius. Did you need something?”

“Did I? Marius asks, frowning, then brightens again. “Oh! Yes! I wanted to see if you’d caught up on your emails, yet? There are lawyers involved in the Patron-Minette scheme, now.”

“I did see that,” Enjolras agrees, trying to sound casual. “Actually, I’ve already replied. Sorry about that, I should have copied you in.”

Marius shakes his head, shrugging. “That’s fine! The less I have to do with Patron-Minette, the better.”

“Ah, well,” says Enjolras. “They’ve asked for a meeting and I was going to see if you’d be happy to attend in my place? It’s just that I’m in court next week with the Champmathieu case.”

“That poor man,” Marius sighs, shaking his head, apparently forgetting that they’re prosecuting Monsieur Champmathieu, not defending him. “And yes, of course I’ll have the meeting, if you really think that’s the best idea?”

As ridiculous and temporary as it may be, Enjolras feels a weight lift off his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says. He sits back and rakes a hand back through his hair. It’s only nine a.m. and he already feels crushed by the weight of the day.

Marius smiles at him and takes a step closer. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look tired.”

Enjolras glances away, looking across the room and out the window, because it’s much easier than seeing the genuine concern on Marius’s face. “Fine. Just didn’t sleep very well.”

Marius makes a tiny noise and when Enjolras looks back at him, the soft smile has fallen from his face. 

“Sorry!” Marius says and abruptly goes very pink. “You just have a, uh, a.” He points at the side of Enjolras’s neck, blushes darker, and points at his own instead.

Completely confused, Enjolras lifts a hand to the place on his neck that Marius indicated. It’s tender to the touch, like a bruise or… “Oh. Oh!” He slaps a hand over it. He can’t believe Grantaire left a love bite; Enjolras is going to kill him.

“Really sorry! Didn’t mean to see! It was just… right there!” Marius flaps. 

He turns to leave, freckles still lost beneath his blush, but when he gets to the doorway, he stops. Squaring his shoulders, he turns back to face Enjolras. 

“Sorry, I know this is massively inappropriate, but I have to ask,” he says. “It wasn’t… you didn’t… you’re not sleeping with Cosette, are you?”

Enjolras blinks at him. He shakes his head. “Aren’t _you_?” He’d been fairly certain about that.

“No!” Marius says. “Not… I mean, not that I don’t want to, but she won’t, she’s not, she won’t even date me. Is it because she’s dating you?” His eyes go huge and upset.

“Marius,” Enjolras says tiredly, “I’m gay.”

Marius’s mouth falls open then morphs rapidly into a wide grin. “Oh thank goodness, that is fantastic!”

“It… is?” Enjolras asks. Now that he’s done it, he can’t imagine why he never came out to Marius before. His sexuality is something that he’s actively proud of; he can’t remember what made him think he needed to hide it, other than an overwhelming desire to hide _every_ part of himself.

“For me, yes,” Marius says, still beaming. “And, I mean, for you too, I hope! It is, right? You’re happy? You seem…” He waves at Enjolras’s love bite. “Content?”

“Uh, yes?” Enjolras says, still baffled. 

Marius glances out into the corridor then lowers his voice. “I was so worried I’d have to compete with you for Cosette’s hand, and I’d never ever have won, because well, look at you, but now!” His smile starts to dim again. “Well, now it turns out she doesn’t want to go out with me because she… doesn’t want to go out with me, not because she’s secretly going out with you. Oh.”

Enjolras really is not equipped to deal with this level of personal drama. Maybe it’s a good thing that Marius will meet Courfeyrac, after all. Courfeyrac could have this situation sorted in a heartbeat.

“Buck up,” Enjolras tries, attempting to sound hearty. “She certainly looks at you as though she wants to go out with you.”

“Do you think so?” Marius lights up.

“I do.” Enjolras nods. He wants to leave it there, but somewhere deep down, it turns out that he is still capable of caring. “But if she chooses not to, I hope you’ll respect that and remain a gentleman.”

“Oh of _course_ ,” Marius says, so sincerely that Enjolras believes him. “I’m going to go and see her now, just to say good morning; maybe I’ll take her a coffee. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her about you.”

“You can,” Enjolras says. He can do this. He can let a few tiny tendrils of connection grow. “It’s not a secret from my friends.”

If Marius looks any happier, he’s going to explode, and he almost skips from the room. 

Left alone again, Enjolras forces himself back to his computer. He forwards Courfeyrac’s email to Marius, then minimises Outlook and pulls up his schedule. He has a meeting at ten and he’s not going to waste any more time thinking.

***

“Okay but like, what is the worst that can happen?” Grantaire asks on the phone that night.

Enjolras isn’t sure what prompted this call, but he’s been on his phone, comfortable in his bed, for the past half an hour and he’s feeling almost as calm as he does when Grantaire is physically here with him.

“Several terrible things,” Enjolras says, because his brain can come up with so many worst case scenarios around a potential reunion with Courfeyrac that it seems to have spiralled all the way around into static.

Grantaire hums. “Iiiiinteresting. He’s literally in the room next door. I could put him onto the phone and you could get this bullshit sorted right now.”

“Don’t!” Enjolras says, gripping his phone so tightly that the plastic case squeaks in his hand. “Please. Don’t.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire chides softly. “This isn’t healthy.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “I know.”

As always, now that Grantaire has won, he immediately gentles his tone. “You need to see him.”

“I can’t,” Enjolras whispers.

Grantaire makes a tsking sound. “You can and you need to. I'll be there if you want or, I mean, Combeferre could be or Jehan or hell anyone, but also me. If you wanted.”

“You,” Enjolras says immediately. “Can it be you?”

“Pretty sure I just offered that, maybe even several times.” Grantaire goes quiet for a moment, letting Enjolras breathe. “Are you going to have a panic attack?”

“Of course not, I don’t have panic attacks,” Enjolras snaps. “I’m fine.”

“Oh good, we’re back to that,” sighs Grantaire. “Tell you what, tomorrow we’ll arrange a playdate for you and Courf, but tonight, we’ll just chat about something else. That sound like it might be good for you and your non-existent anxiety?”

Enjolras hates needing this much coddling. It’s embarrassing and pathetic. But, “Yes,” is all he can manage to say.

“Fab! So! Anything else fun happen at work today? Destroy any lives? Make anyone cry?”

Enjolras doesn’t _think_ he did either of those things. It’s dreadful that he can’t be completely sure. “I came out to a coworker?”

“Huh, always fun,” says Grantaire in a way that implies he simultaneously does and doesn’t mean that. “A very new one, presumably.”

“No, actually, I’ve known him for quite a while.”

Grantaire makes a noise. “And he _didn’t_ know you were gay? Has he never spoken to you?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes even though Grantaire can’t see him. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

Grantaire laughs. “I’m not saying you’re obvious,” he says, “even though you’re totally obvious. I’m _saying_ that the idea of you spending more than five seconds with someone and not lecturing them on queer rights is baffling.”

“It’s a professional environment, Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps. “I’m older now. I know how to better pick my moments.”

His _moments_ are now _never_ , but he doesn’t tell Grantaire that.

“Sure, sure,” Grantaire says. “Want to hear about the dude I had in the studio today?”

Enjolras rolls onto his side, pressing one cheek into his pillow. “What about him?”

“Well, I’m not one to judge, of course,” Grantaire says, in a tone that indicates he’s definitely going to judge, “but he wanted a tattoo of someone getting a tattoo of someone getting a tattoo, like some sort of meta Inception thing.”

“Did you give him one?” Enjolras asks. He swallows down a yawn, not wanting Grantaire to stop talking.

“I did and it looked pretty damn good,” Grantaire says, voice satisfied. “But how fucking pretentious can you be?”

Enjolras smiles. “Tell me what other pieces you’ve done this week?”

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asks. “They’re mostly people’s names and things; there probably aren’t any more funny stories.”

“That’s okay,” Enjolras says. He can’t hold back the yawn this time. “Just tell me.”

Grantaire does. He runs through all the tattoos he can remember from that week then launches into random ones he’s done in the past, while Enjolras’s eyes grow heavier and heavier and eventually he’s missing every other word Grantaire says.

“Babe,” Grantaire says at last, sounding fond. “I’m going to go, you’re falling asleep.”

“No, I’m awake,” Enjolras protests. “I’m listening.” He’d rather doze, listening to Grantaire’s voice, than try to sleep properly and end up left alone in the dark again.

Grantaire gives the sigh he always gives when he thinks Enjolras is being ridiculous. “At least put your phone on speaker then, and get comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable,” Enjolras says, but does manage to clumsily switch to handsfree.

“Good,” Grantaire says softly. “So, my oldest ever client was this eighty-one year old lady…”

Enjolras falls asleep long before the end of the story. He wakes up at five and can’t go back to sleep, but the hours before that were deep and nightmare-free, so overall he’s pretty satisfied.

***

A few days later, Enjolras is in a particularly bad mood.

His case against poor Monsieur Champmathieu is going much better than he would like it to, he can’t find Cosette and, somewhere on the other side of the building, Marius will shortly be meeting with Courfeyrac.

He takes the long route back to his office, careful not to pass any of the meeting rooms, and almost jumps out of his skin, when he finds Listolier, one of the junior partners, standing in his doorway.

“Uh, sir?” Enjolras asks. He doesn’t particularly dislike Listolier, who is mostly just vain and a little useless, but he instinctively mistrusts any of the partners being in his office.

“Enjolras,” Listolier booms, pushing off from the wall he’s been leaning against. “I’ve just seen Pontmercy on his way to the Patron-Minnette meeting. Did you really suggest he chair it alone?”

“Marius is an excellent lawyer, he’ll be fine,” Enjolras says confidently. 

“Oh, he’s certainly good,” agrees Listolier, which means at least that Enjolras doesn’t have to fight him. “But the trouble with him is that he’s soft. If he ends up giving these people any ground, Monsieur Thenardier will not be pleased and Monsieur Thenardier being displeased will bring trouble down on us all.”

“I’m sure Marius will be fine,” Enjolras repeats. There’s an odd feeling stuck in his throat, as though he already knows what Listolier is going to say and his body is preparing to react.

“I want you in there,” Listolier says firmly.

_No. No, no, no, no, no._ Enjolras curls his hands into fists and swallows hard against the pressure in his windpipe. “I can’t just go in there and undermine him,” he says. “Sir.”

Listolier cocks his head. “Can you undermine me?” he asks. He sounds pleasant enough but Enjolras knows that won’t last.

“Sir, I - ”

“Now, Enjolras,” Listolier says. He walks to Enjolras’s door and waits, arms folded, while Enjolras picks up a notebook and a pen with fingers that have turned numb and follows him down the corridor.

Listolier chats as they walk to the meeting rooms, but Enjolras can barely hear him let alone answer. Maybe Courfeyrac won’t have come. Maybe he’ll have sent a colleague too. Maybe the spinning in Enjolras’s head will cause him to collapse right here and miss the meeting entirely.

“In you go,” Listolier says, stopping outside their smallest, boxiest meeting room. “Don’t come out until you’ve beaten them into submission.” He smiles. “So to speak, of course.”

Blackgold lights flicker in the corners of Enjolras’s eyes and he wouldn’t have been able to open the door, if Listolier weren’t right behind him, giving him no choice.

He steps into the room.

Marius is standing nearest to the door - so near that the door nearly hits him as Enjolras pushes it inwards - clutching a glass of water and already looking a little alarmed.

Opposite him stands broad, ginger-haired Feuilly from the JVJ website, and next to _him_ …

Courfeyrac’s eyes go wide, a smile lights his face, and he takes a step forward, leaning slightly on his walking cane as he does so.

“Marius,” Enjolras says, more than a little desperately. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Monsieur Listolier thought you wouldn’t mind if I joined you.”

The door closes again with a muted click, sealing him in.

“No, no, that’s fine,” Marius says. He’s frowning a little, either because Enjolras had been so adamant about not having the time to come, or because he can see the cold sweat that Enjolras can feel gathering on his face. “Let me introduce you.”

Enjolras shakes hands with Feuilly first, who looks him over curiously but gives him a polite enough nod. Then Courfeyrac is there, his hand in Enjolras’s, his brown eyes soft, and that damned smile still playing at the corner of his lips.

How can he look at Enjolras like that after everything Enjolras did? It isn’t right.

“Monsieur de Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, forcing his voice to stay level even though it wants to wobble all over the place. “We exchanged emails the other day.”

“We did,” Courfeyrac agrees, giving Enjolras’s hand an extra squeeze before he lets it go.

_Please pretend not to know me_ , Enjolras thinks wildly. _Please. If you ever loved me, please._

“Can I get you a water, Enjolras?” Marius asks. Enjolras wonders just how terrible he must look.

“I’ll get it,” Enjolras says, which gives him a reprieve of forty seconds or so while he goes to the water cooler and fills a plastic cup. 

“Do you mind if we sit down?” Courfeyrac asks, when Enjolras rejoins them. He taps his cane apologetically. “I’m not the best at standing.”

One of the first things they’re taught here is to keep unwanted visitors on their feet. It cuts short the meeting and upsets people’s equilibrium.

Marius glances at Enjolras, who pretends to look back but can’t actually see anything except for blood. 

“Of course,” Marius says. “Of course. Have a seat at the table over there. Are you all right?”

Courfeyrac gives him what Enjolras knows to be his very best smile. “I’m absolutely fine, Monsieur Pontmercy, but thank you for your concern.”

_You’re engaged_ , Enjolras thinks, but he’s not supposed to know that and, anyway, it would never be enough to stop Courfeyrac flirting. A meteor wouldn’t be enough to stop Courfeyrac flirting.

Feuilly catches Enjolras’s look and rolls his eyes. Does he know that they know each other? If he’s a member of l’ABC then he probably does. Oh god.

Courfeyrac somehow manipulates their seating arrangements so that he’s next to Enjolras, but he doesn’t do or say anything except produce two copies of a thick, printed document and hand them over.

“These are our concerns,” he says. “They’re broken down by category, and we’ll leave you to read and respond in your own time, but I’d like to draw your particular attention to page ninety-three.”

Enjolras sits through the meeting as though he’s in a dream. Courfeyrac and Feuilly have environmental reports, socioeconomic concerns, and over one thousand signatures protesting the development.

“You know none of this will be enough to stop it?” Enjolras asks, cutting across Marius who was probably about to say something much less blunt.

Courfeyrac smiles at him and nudges his arm. “No, but it’ll slow you down.”

Enjolras freezes. He can feel the place where Courfeyrac’s sleeve touched his like it’s a brand that seared directly through to his skin.

“Also,” Feuilly says, while Enjolras is trying not to drown. “We have this.”

He pulls a small, cardboard box from the depths of his bag and sets it on the table.

“What is it?” Marius asks, leaning forward. At Feuilly’s nod, he lifts up the lid, then makes a questioning humming sound.

Inside the box are broken pieces of a purple-grey shell, speckled with large, dark spots.

“That’s an ortolan egg shell,” Courfeyrac says. “Some environmentalists of our acquaintance found it broken beneath the remnants of a nest. Disturbing an ortolan breeding site is against the law, as I’m sure you know.”

“‘Some environmentalists’?” Enjolras echoes. He wants to ask if that means Jehan and the boy Combeferre mentioned, Gavroche. He also wants to ask if this is genuine or another good attempt at slowing them down. “You’ll understand if we don’t take your word for it?”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac agrees magnanimously. “Have your people look it over, but don’t think you can just disappear it. We took photographs of the site.”

“We would never do that!” Marius protests. He carefully closes the box and gathers it together with his papers. “I’ll take this to our researcher right now.”

“I assure you, she’ll find that it’s genuine,” Courfeyrac says. He nods at Feuilly who nods back and they both stand as one. “Well, gentleman, it’s been a pleasure.”

They shake hands again and Courfeyrac lingers over Enjolras’s again, but Enjolras can’t make himself say or do anything except let Courfeyrac leave.

He presses his hands shakily to the table, as soon as he and Marius are left alone.

“You’re not all right, are you?” Marius asks quietly. “Do you need to go home?”

Enjolras looks up, already pasting on a smile and a lie, except the door opens again before he can lie.

“Monsieur Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, walking back into the room. “My apologies. Just one more thing?”

Enjolras closes his eyes for a second then nods. “Of course. Marius, why don’t you take that to Cosette? I’ll catch up in a minute.”

“Are you sure?” Marius murmurs. “I can stay or - ”

“I promise not to eat him, Monsieur Pontmercy,” Courfeyrac says with another of those charming smiles. 

Enjolras can’t face whatever Courfeyrac wants to say while sitting down, so he forces himself back to his feet. As soon as Marius has left, Courfeyrac leans his cane against the table and grabs both his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says, low and urgent, “I know you wanted me to be professional, but I couldn’t just leave without saying how amazing it is to see you.”

Enjolras tries to snatch his hands back, but Courfeyrac won’t let him. “Why?” he asks, barely more than a breath.

Courfeyrac frowns. There are tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before. “Because you’re my best friend.”

Enjolras’s hands clench around Courfeyrac’s, which is the opposite of what he actually wanted to happen. “I can’t talk about this here.” This time when he pulls away, Courfeyrac lets him go.

Courfeyrac’s expression turned rueful. “I know, I know. R warned me, Ferre warned me, but you know me, I never listen.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, just wishes that Courfeyrac would go while simultaneously wanting to keep him here forever.

“Come to a meeting?” Courfeyrac asks into the silence. “Please?”

Enjolras shakes his head, but what right does he have to say no, if Courfeyrac wants him there. Courfeyrac should hate him as much as he hates himself, but instead he’s being generous.

Courfeyrac squeezes Enjolras’s hand one more time, then steps forward and puts his lips to Enjolras’s cheek. It’s a long, lingering kiss, hard enough that Enjolras can feel the individual pricks of Courfeyrac’s stubble pressing into his skin. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, in a room above the Corinth. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, helplessly. “Okay.”

***

Enjolras is still at work, pouring over the document Courfeyrac and Feuilly left, when his phone rings.

“Hello?” he says, answering without looking, which he hasn’t done for years.

“So, I’m at your place, but you’re not answering the door,” Grantaire says from the other end of the line. “Are you out or just hiding under your dining table so I can’t find you?”

Enjolras frowns. “I don’t have a dining table.” His brain feels foggy from being so immersed in his reading, and it’s hard to parse the spoken word. “Wait, did we have plans?”

“Nah, I just thought I’d drop round,” Grantaire says. Behind him, Enjolras can hear the familiar rumble of the traffic on his street.

“Oh.” Enjolras rubs at his eyes, wondering what time it is. “I’m still at work.”

“It’s quarter to ten!” Grantaire objects, which at least answers that question. 

“And I’m working! Mostly on the dossier the ABC produced, so you’re really at least partly to blame.”

Grantaire laughs. “Yeah, fair enough. Look, why don’t I swing by your office, if you’re trapped there?”

Enjolras’s attention was drifting back to his paperwork, now he snaps back to reality. “I can’t have sex in my office, R!”

There’s a long silence. “Right. Right, of course,” Grantaire says. “Silly of me. Have a good night.”

“R?” Enjolras asks, only to be met by more silence. “Grantaire?”

When he pulls the phone away from his ear to check, it turns out that Grantaire has hung up on him.

Baffled, Enjolras tries to think back through the conversation, but he can’t work out what he said wrong. He _can’t_ have sex at work; it would be unreasonable of Grantaire to think he could.

Not that Grantaire actually mentioned sex, but surely it was implied.

Wasn’t it?

Enjolras slides his chair more securely under the desk and tries to regain his focus, but now that he’s realised how late it is, his brain appears to have gone on strike. It’s much more interested in worrying about how he might have offended Grantaire.

After another twenty minutes of plodding painfully through pages he was fascinated by minutes earlier, he gets up, shoves the dossier into his bag and pulls on his coat.

The metro is full for this time of night, but it’s running smoothly so it isn’t long before he’s standing outside Grantaire’s shop. It’s only when he gets there that he starts to feel a little foolish, but it’s too late now.

_Come downstairs?_ he texts, hoping that his hunch is right and Grantaire did head home after Enjolras annoyed him.

There’s a delay, which could mean that Grantaire is asleep, or ignoring him, but just as Enjolras is trying to come up with a plan b, a low light comes on in the shop and a shadow falls over the glass front door.

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire hisses, ushering him inside.

The tattoo studio is made up of shadows and soft shapes, lit only by a blue and green lava lamp bubbling away in one corner. 

Grantaire tries to lead him toward the spiral staircase but Enjolras ignores him, drifting over to one of the sofas, instead. 

“Would it be all right, if we stayed down here?” he asks. He might have been able to speak to Courfeyrac in a professional setting, but he doesn’t feel up to seeing him - or Jehan - in their own home.

Grantaire stops at the base of the stairs and leans back against the bannisters. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie, and his hair is flat on one side.

Enjolras frowns. “Did I wake you?”

“Not really.” Grantaire shrugs. “I was lying down but I wasn’t asleep. You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Enjolras goes into his bag and pulls out a slightly battered red box. “Here.”

Grantaire’s expression wobbles between a smile and a frown, as he takes the box of chocolates that Enjolras presses on him. “O _kay_?”

Enjolras folds his arms, worries that that looks defensive and drops them to his sides. Then he feels a little like a robot, but isn’t sure how to improve upon the situation. “I’m sorry, if I made it sound as though our only interactions were sex-based.”

The smile wins out but Grantaire doesn’t look at him, just at the chocolates. “Well, they are,” he says.

“No.” Enjolras steps closer. “They have been, but now that I’ve considered it, I don’t think you were actually offering to come to my work to, um, well.”

“Screw you?” Grantaire asks, dragging out the word just enough that it makes Enjolras’s toes curl.

“Yes.” Enjolras clears his throat. “That. I don’t think you were offering that, were you?”

“Was I offering to come to your office and blow you at your desk, while you worked away at your important lawyer-ly shit.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “No, Enjolras, that’s not the life I’m living.”

“You were offering to keep me company?” Enjolras guesses. He really shouldn’t be so bad at this, but apparently four years is long enough to rob him of his ability to understand friendships.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire sighs. He drops the chocolates onto a little wooden crate table and flops down onto one of his sofas. “I thought you might be feeling an emotion or two after seeing Courf, and I know you don’t like that, that’s all.”

Now Enjolras feels even more guilty than he did before. He sits down next to Grantaire and folds his hands contritely in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck off,” Grantaire says, but he says it fondly. “I can’t believe you brought me guilt chocolates in the middle of the night.”

“They’re not guilt chocolates, and it’s not even midnight,” Enjolras protests. 

“Whatever.” Grantaire unties the ribbon from around the box and flips up the lid, before holding them out to Enjolras. “Guilt chocolate?”

“They’re not - ” Enjolras gives up, because what’s the point. He selects a dome-shaped chocolate and pops it into his mouth. It explodes in an ooze of caramel and he makes an appreciative noise.

“Didn’t even check to see what it was, what a rebel,” Grantaire says. He’s carefully perusing the selection card, eventually picking a triangular white chocolate. “Fuck, these are good.”

Enjolras tries not to smile too smugly but fails. “I’m pleased you like them,” he says, accepting another when Grantaire offers it. This one’s some kind of ganache, but he still doesn’t feel the need to check to see what kind. “I should go, and let you get back to bed?”

He definitely doesn’t mean to make that a question; it just sort of happens.

“Or you could stay and snarf chocolates with me?” Grantaire suggests. He curls up more comfortably on the sofa and puts the box in between them. 

Enjolras has no desire to go back to his empty apartment when there’s warmth and company and chocolate here, but, “Are you sure?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager.

“I probably won’t sleep anyway, so it’s not as if you’ll be keeping me up.” Grantaire starts comparing the selection card to the chocolates in the box, so Enjolras takes another one, just to mess up his search.

“Why won’t you sleep?” he asks.

There’s a pause, which Enjolras assumes is just because Grantaire is reading about chocolate, until Grantaire says, “No, we talk about your mental health, not mine.”

Enjolras looks up at him and finds Grantaire looking back. Grantaire shrugs one shoulder.

“Firstly, my mental health is fine,” Enjolras says, and ignores Grantaire’s snort. “Secondly, that would make this an unconscionably one-sided friendship. So again, why won’t you sleep?”

“I’ve changed my mind, go away,” Grantaire says, but there’s no heat behind it. He sighs. “Yesterday was my four year anniversary of being sober, okay? Which is meant to make me feel like a success, apparently, but mostly I just spent the whole day wanting to neck a bottle of gin and today hasn’t been much better.”

“But you haven’t done that,” Enjolras says, careful not to make it a question.

Grantaire shakes his head. “You’d know if I had, trust me.” 

“Well, then.”

Grantaire smiles slightly. “Well then, what?”

“Well then,” Enjolras repeats. “You’ve been sober for four years, and you’ve stayed sober today, so that is still a success, even if it doesn’t feel like one.”

“Hm,” Grantaire says, which Enjolras hopes means he’s listening.

Enjolras _really_ hopes he’s saying this right. “I’m assuming you’ve felt proud of your achievement on other days?”

“Yes?” Grantaire says. 

“Then yesterday and today are just days. Maybe you’ll feel proud again tomorrow or maybe it will take another six months, but it’s happened before and it’s going to happen again, so not feeling a particular way after an arbitrary anniversary doesn’t seem like such a problem to me.”

God, Grantaire is right, Enjolras has no idea how to navigate Grantaire’s feelings, and realising that makes him feel ashamed, especially since Grantaire has been so careful and kind with him.

“That was… actually sort of helpful,” says Grantaire to Enjolras’s massive relief. “Have a chocolate.”

Enjolras makes himself smile. “Is it still a guilt chocolate?” 

“Nah. It’s a thank you chocolate, this time.” Grantaire waits for Enjolras to pick and eat another one and then moves the box away. He scoots closer and puts his hand on Enjolras’s cheek. “And this is a thank you kiss.”

It’s a very light kiss, just a gentle brush of lips. Enjolras can taste chocolate on Grantaire’s breath and on his own tongue and it makes them feel as though they’re already connected.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Enjolras says, when Grantaire pulls back to shift positions. “And I didn’t come here to have sex with you.”

“Who said anything about sex?” Grantaire asks impatiently. He loops an arm around Enjolras’s neck and settles in against his side. “This is just kissing.”

Enjolras turns in toward him, automatically mimicking his body language, until they’re curled together and the angle is perfect for more kissing. It turns out that Grantaire also tastes of chocolate, and Enjolras chases it down until Grantaire laughs and pushes him back a little.

“Gonna choke me,” he says, tipping his head back against the sofa and smiling up at Enjolras.

“Sorry,” Enjolras murmurs, going back to kiss him again. He can’t seem to get enough of Grantaire’s smooth lips or the way his dark stubble bites at Enjolras’s mouth. “I hope this is okay and not hugely patronising, but I just want you to know that _I’m_ proud of you.”

Grantaire stops kissing. When Enjolras checks on him, he looks baffled. “You… are?”

“If that’s okay,” Enjolras says.

Slowly, Grantaire smiles like the dawn is breaking. “Four years ago, I would have chopped off my nose to hear you say that.” His hands rise to Enjolras’s hair, tucking it gently behind his ears. “Turns out it’s still pretty fucking cool now, too.”

He’s overwhelmingly handsome, so much so that it makes Enjolras’s stomach ache.

“R,” Enjolras murmurs. “I honestly didn’t come here for sex.”

Grantaire’s smile becomes a smirk. “But?”

Feeling breathless, Enjolras slides off the sofa and down onto his knees at Grantaire’s feet.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, even though Enjolras thinks he’s being very obvious about his intentions.

Shuffling forward, Enjolras puts his hands on Grantaire’s knees, urging them apart, and slides in between them. “Can I?” he asks, sliding his hands up to Grantaire’s thighs.

Grantaire swallows hard enough that his adam’s apple bobs. “C-certainly.”

Enjolras breathes out a long sigh and rubs his face against the inside of Grantaire’s thigh. The cotton of his sweatpants is very soft and so worn that it’s almost like directly touching his skin. 

Grantaire must feel the same, because his breath hitches and his makes a small, cut-off sound. He isn’t hard yet, but when Enjolras’s presses his cheek to the front of Grantaire’s sweatpants, he can definitely feel him starting to swell.

Enjolras looks up at him without bothering to lift his head. It means he’s looking up through his own eyelashes and Grantaire is haloed in gold.

“Take yourself out,” Enjolras says. “Please.”

Grantaire stares down at him, then licks his lips. “Why can’t you do it, huh?”

That’s a good question. Enjolras knows that that isn’t what he wants, but he doesn’t realise why until he notices that he’s automatically clasped his hands behind his back, waiting as though someone’s put them there.

“This is better,” he says.

“For you?” Grantaire asks. He doesn’t sound annoyed, he sounds as though the answer to that being yes would be sexy to him. Luckily, the answer is definitely yes.

When Enjolras breathes, “Yeah,” Grantaire groans and pushes his sweatpants down with shaking hands.

He’s almost fully hard now and this is the best opportunity Enjolras has had so far to study Grantaire’s dick, so he takes full advantage, learning its shape and curve, the patterns its ridges and veins make under his skin.

“Stop looking and suck me, oh my god,” Grantaire whines from up above him.

It presents a dilemma to Enjolras, who loves to be told what to do in this specific circumstance but _also_ greatly enjoys driving Grantaire crazy. In the end, the need to have a dick in his mouth wins out and he licks his lips before he leans forward and mouths carefully at the head.

He hasn’t given a blowjob in a long, long time, so he takes his time, relearning what to do with his lips and his tongue, remembering how to be careful with his teeth. Grantaire makes frustrated, whining noises, but his breath is also becoming gratifyingly fast and heavy so Enjolras doesn’t think he’s really objecting.

“Please, please, all the way in, please,” Grantaire begs, so Enjolras obeys. He hollows his cheeks, reassures himself that he can definitely still relax his throat, and takes Grantaire in as deeply as he can. It’s not as far as he used to be able to go, but he’s very willing to relearn.

Grantaire tastes amazing, makes his mouth water with need, which makes it easier to take him in again and again, until Enjolras is bobbing his head over Grantaire’s lap and the head of Grantaire’s dick is just about brushing the back of Enjolras’s throat.

Enjolras wants to grip the strong thighs that he can feel against his cheeks, but he wants to push himself to do this with his hands behind his back even more. He releases Grantaire’s dick for a moment so he can kiss and lick his balls, get every part of him lovely and wet, then goes back to the best part. He’s missed this so much; he suddenly can’t believe he’s survived this long without a dick in his mouth.

“Oh fuck,” Grantaire breathes above him. “Fuck, you love this, don’t you?”

Enjolras doesn’t want to pull off again, so he just says, “Mmhmm,” around Grantaire’s dick, which makes Grantaire swear again.

“Can I touch your hair? I won’t pull but can I? Please?”

Enjolras would not object if he pulled, but that’s an explanation for another time. For now, he just hums agreement again and sighs in pleasure when Grantaire’s fingers tangle gently in his long curls.

Grantaire is leaking constantly onto Enjolras’s tongue now and Enjolras can feel the strain in his whole body as he tries not to come. The fact that he might be doing that for Enjolras, so Enjolras can do this for longer, makes Enjolras’s already aching cock throb harder.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire gasps eventually, sounding agonised. “I’m sorry, I have to.”

Enjolras smiles around his mouthful and looks up at Grantaire before swallowing very pointedly.

“Oh fucking shit,” Grantaire sighs and jerks hard, coming in Enjolras’s mouth until Enjolras pulls back and lets the last few spurts hit his lips instead.

Grantaire falls off the sofa.

He lands half in Enjolras’s lap, half on the wooden floor, and tackles Enjolras back onto a nearby rug. 

“You are so good at that,” he says, kissing Enjolras and unbuttoning his trousers at the same time. “Have you always been that good at that? If you hadn’t had that godawful, stupid rule about not dating anyone in the group, could I have known you were good at that years ago?”

The idea of having Grantaire in his bed back then, when everything was simple and he didn’t second guess everything, makes Enjolras whine into Grantaire’s mouth.

“I know, I know, shh, I’ll get you off,” Grantaire says, both understanding and misunderstanding Enjolras’s meaning.

His hand is cool and firm around Enjolras’s dick. He doesn’t do anything fancy, doesn’t get a _chance_ to do anything fancy, because half-a-dozen quick tugs are all Enjolras needs before he’s spilling over Grantaire’s wrist and the inside of his own boxershorts.

They lie together panting afterwards, until Grantaire starts to shiver. Then they move back up onto the sofa, Enjolras’s head on Grantaire’s still-heaving chest, and Grantaire’s arms around him.

It’s so peaceful that Enjolras could fall asleep, and he’s incredibly grateful to Grantaire for somehow knowing that Enjolras would prefer silence for once. The most Grantaire noise makes is to hum something lightly into his hair, but otherwise they just sit there, their breathing and heartbeats slowly returning to normal, until a soft creak on the stairs makes Enjolras stiffen.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Grantaire breathes and doesn’t let go of him.

“R?” Jehan’s silvery voice calls, quieter even than Enjolras remembers them, although that might be because it’s late.

“Everything’s fine,” Grantaire calls back. “I have a visitor.”

“At this time of night?” Jehan asks, then they appear at the top of the stairs, kneeling on one of the top steps so they can lean on the banisters and look down into the shop. It’s too dark to see their expression, and Enjolras can’t tell anything from the flat way they say, “Oh. Hi, Enjolras.”

“Hi, Jehan,” Enjolras says, but stays where he is because Grantaire seems very certain about not letting him move. “I’m sorry if we woke you.” 

Jehan draws back a little, tugging the sides of their fluffy dressing gown closed over their pyjamas. “You didn’t,” they say. “R? Are you okay?”

“I’m not bad,” Grantaire says. “Don’t worry about me, go back to bed.”

Jehan hesitates for a moment. “Okay, if you’re sure,” they say, standing up. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Enjolras echoes.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, just hugs Enjolras.

“Do they… do they hate me?” Enjolras asks uncertainly. He’s seen Jehan with their friends - _been_ one of Jehan’s best friends - and that isn’t how they react to people they know. That brittle, careful shyness is how they react to strangers.

“Of course not,” Grantaire says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

After a second, they hear a bright laugh from upstairs, cutting through the night and easing the sinking feeling in Enjolras’s stomach. “Get it, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac yells.

Grantaire bursts out laughing. A second later, so does Enjolras, although he tries to muffle it in Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Your best friend is the worst,” Grantaire tells him.

Enjolras can’t say, _he’s not my best friend_ , because that would be an awful betrayal and it wouldn’t be true, but he also can’t agree because he doesn’t have any right to that honour anymore.

He doesn’t say anything and Grantaire doesn’t make him, just kisses his forehead. 

“Come and sleep upstairs?” Grantaire asks. He hushes Enjolras like he’s a skittish horse the second Enjolras tenses. “Just to sleep, promise. I won’t make you talk to anyone, but they already know you’re here, so why go all the way home at this time of night?”

Enjolras wants to stay.

Enjolras doesn’t want to stay. 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says.

“I’d like you to,” Grantaire says simply. “Maybe I’ll actually sleep, if you’re there.”

Enjolras looks at him suspiciously, but he _seems_ genuine. “Fine,” Enjolras says. “Fine. But you’re lending me pyjamas.”

“Like I wear any,” Grantaire says and pushes him up from the sofa.

***

The apartment above the tattoo shop is larger than Enjolras would have predicted. The living areas and the kitchen have all been merged into one and there are enough doors leading off it to indicate three bedrooms as well as a bathroom.

They pass through quietly and it’s dark but Enjolras still gets an impression of warmth and hominess that isn't at all surprising, considering who lives here.

He and Grantaire stay quiet even after they reach Grantaire's room and Grantaire shuts the door then turns on a lamp. The bed is unmade, which reminds Enjolras that he dragged Grantaire out of it when he arrived, but otherwise it's much tidier than he would have predicted.

Even the paints and paper and books on the floor seem like they have an order to them. The pile of washing in the corner, not so much, but that's the only thing out of place.

Grantaire sees where Enjolras is looking and wrinkles his nose. “Fallen a bit behind,” he says. “I’ll catch up.”

“I wasn't judging,” Enjolras says quickly, quietly.

“Good,” says Grantaire, stepping over the laundry and opening a draw next to his wardrobe. “I basically have the energy to worry about you _or_ do laundry, and I've been picking you lately.”

Enjolras takes the t-shirt and sweatpants that Grantaire hands him and frowns. “There’s no need to worry about me.”

Grantaire gives that all the response he decides it deserves, which is apparently none.

“Want me to close my eyes while you get changed?”

Enjolras thinks about all the parts of himself that Grantaire has already seen. “Would it be ridiculous to say yes?”

“Only the sort of ridiculous I'd expect from you,” Grantaire says in a way that somehow manages to sound reassuring.

He throws himself down onto his bed and rolls onto his side, facing away from Enjolras.

Enjolras changes quickly, hanging his work clothes over the side of an easel that's lying abandoned in one corner.

Then he's entirely uncertain what to do next.

“You can turn the pillow over, if you’re worried I’ve drooled on it,” Grantaire mutters into his own pillow. “But please, get in the bed.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras says. He fiddles with the lamp until he manages to turn it off, then climbs into bed behind Grantaire. He’s half-expecting Grantaire to turn around and touch him, which he doesn’t realise until Grantaire stays exactly where he is.

Enjolras shifts, trying to make himself comfortable in Grantaire’s tangled sheets, his feet hitting what feels like a book or two when he attempts to stretch out.

“Just kick shit onto the floor,” Grantaire says. “It won’t break.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras says and lays his feet on top of the book. It’s oddly comfortable, as is Grantaire’s heavy duvet, when Enjolras pulls it up to his chin.

They lie in a silence, which should feel peaceful, since it’s the middle of the night and Enjolras is definitely tired enough to sleep. Something is odd about Grantaire’s stillness, though. 

Enjolras should let it go, he knows, but then he thinks about all the ways that Grantaire has been kind to him over the past few weeks, and has to see if he can do the same.

“R,” he whispers, sliding across the small space between them and putting his hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Grantaire doesn’t pull away, which Enjolras was half-afraid he would. Instead, he pushes back against Enjolras a little. “Told you, my brain’s being a bit of a dick.”

Enjolras brushes a kiss against the point of Grantaire’s jaw. “Can I help?”

“The blowjob helped,” Grantaire says, a smile in his voice through the dark.

Enjolras should know much more about mental health than he does. He’s a passionate supporter, but he’s always shied away from getting involved in people’s personal stories, scared he’ll be too blunt and get something wrong.

“Would you like another?” he tries.

Grantaire laughs and Enjolras can feel it running through them both. 

“What?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire rolls over onto his back and looks up at Enjolras, his eyes shining in the dark. “You can’t suck the depression out of my head through my dick,” he says fondly. “Trust me, if you could, I would totally let you try.”

Enjolras leans down and kisses him. He thinks it might be the first kiss he’s initiated between them without any intent behind it.

Grantaire reaches up and cups Enjolras’s face, fingers gentle when he tucks Enjolras’s hair behind his ear. “Thanks for staying.”

Enjolras shakes his head, careful not to dislodge his hair from where Grantaire wanted it to be. He just doesn’t know what to say. “You’d stay for me.”

“I would.” Grantaire presses carefully on the back of Enjolras’s head until Enjolras lays down against his side, cheek pillowed on Grantaire’s chest.

“Are you going to sleep?” he asks.

Grantaire’s chest rises and falls as he breathes. “Maybe.” He strokes his fingers through Enjolras’s hair, over and over until Enjolras can’t keep his eyes open.

“Stop that and I’ll stay awake with you,” Enjolras slurs, barely hearing himself.

“Babe,” Grantaire chides quietly, like Enjolras is being ridiculous but that’s okay because Grantaire is fond of him. “That’s the opposite of what I want.”

***

Enjolras wakes up to the beeping of an alarm that he doesn’t recognise, groaning and hiding his face in the pillow in the hope it will go away.

Vaguely, he’s aware of some movement to his right, the warm press of bare skin against his as Grantaire leans over him and then, miraculously, the noise stops.

“Hey,” Grantaire murmurs, lips against the back of Enjolras’s head. “I panicked and set an alarm in the night.”

“Time’s it?” Enjolras mumbles, every atom of his body yearning toward sleep.

“Seven,” Grantaire says, which means it’s definitely time for Enjolras to wake up. Instead, he just groans and flops against Grantaire’s side. Grantaire laughs and kisses the top of his head. 

Somehow, Enjolras ends up with his nose pressed into Grantaire’s armpit, which is fine: it’s warm and dark and smells interesting; he’d be happy to stay here.

He must drift off again, because it feels like no time at all but also like hours have passed, when Grantaire hums and pushes at his arm. “Okay, I let you snooze for ten minutes. Time to get up now.”

Enjolras is not a morning person. He’s usually early to work but that’s because he doesn’t sleep. Having to wake up and get moving feels physically painful.

“Did you sleep?” he asks, pushing himself up and swinging his legs out of the bed before he can flop back down.

“Mm, bit,” Grantaire says, muffled.

When Enjolras looks back over his shoulder at him, he finds that Grantaire’s eyes are closed, both arms up and over his head.

Enjolras reaches out and pulls the duvet backup and over Grantaire’s bare back. “Get some more sleep.”

Grantaire shakes his head against the pillow. “Breakfast,” he yawns, “for you. Shower. Hosting.”

Enjolras’s stomach aches in a way that feels positive: good and fond and unfamiliar. “I’ll cope,” he promises. “Go to sleep.”

“No,” Grantaire whines, but a couple of moments later, he’s snoring softly.

Enjolras stands up, feeling unaccountably as though he’s already achieved something important today. He pulls on yesterday’s clothes, shoves his tie into his trouser pocket and slides out of Grantaire’s room.

The apartment is still dark, morning light just leaking in through the tall windows. Enjolras picks up his shoes and creeps through the living space, careful not to knock or brush anything that might make a noise.

He’s almost out when there’s a rustle from the sofa, an odd pattering noise, and then something soft and furry jumps on his foot.

Enjolras hops back, swears, and just about manages not to kick out at what turns out to be a small, grey cat. 

“Hello?” Enjolras says, while the cat bats at his toes. It’s not quite a kitten, but he doesn’t think it’s large enough to be a fully grown cat. “I’m Enjolras.”

The cat flicks its tail from side to side, watching Enjolras’s foot with focused attention. Because he apparently likes getting his toes bitten this early in the morning, Enjolras twitches his foot.

The cat pounces.

“You’ve got a friend for life, there,” Courfeyrac’s voice says softly from the direction of the bedrooms.

With a cat to concentrate on, Enjolras finds it easier to look over at him. Courfeyrac looks sleepy, leaning against the wall and smiling drowsily. Other than the cat, this reminds Enjolras of a hundred mornings in their shared flat at university.

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” says Enjolras nonsensically. Why _would_ he know that?

“Mm, we rescued her when she was a teeny tiny kitten.” Courfeyrac pushes away from the wall, and drops down so he’s lying on the nearest sofa.

The cat immediately abandons Enjolras’s feet and leaps up onto the sofa, walking up Courfeyrac’s chest and bumping her head against his chin. Courfeyrac laughs and kisses her nose. Enjolras is intruding.

He sits down at the top of the staircase and starts to lace his shoes, working as quickly as he can.

“Have a good day,” he says, as soon as his shoes are on. 

He starts down the stairs, but Courfeyrac says his name, calls him back. The cat is curled against Courfeyrac’s neck and Courfeyrac looks just about as ready to fall back to sleep.

“I’ll see you tonight, right?” he asks. At Enjolras’s frown, he adds, “It’s Thursday. You said you’d come to the meeting?”

Enjolras’s stomach sinks and on its way down to his stomach, it appears to acquire several rocks and some barbed wire. “I did say that,” he agrees.

“You don’t have to,” Courfeyrac says. He’s smiling, but his voice is soft and quiet the way it gets when he’s disappointed.

“I’ll come,” Enjolras says, quietly cursing himself. “I said and I would and I will. 7pm?”

“At the Corinth, yeah,” Courfeyrac says. He lifts one of the cat’s long legs and makes her wave a paw at Enjolras.

Shaking his head, Enjolras swallows down a smile. “I’ll be there,” he promises, then heads home for a change of clothes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: discussion of past addiction, a little bit of violence, and some distinctly under-negotiated sex.

As the day rolls on, Enjolras’s stomach pulls itself into a tighter and tighter knot until every breath is a sharp pain.

“Are you all right?” Cosette asks, midway through stealing some of Enjolras’s coffee.

“Mm, you’re frowny,” Marius adds. Why he’s there, Enjolras doesn’t know, but he’s so tense that he worries he’ll snap if he asks.

“I’m not frowny,” Enjolras says, quicker than he means to. He rolls his shoulders back, forces them down from around his ears. Friends, he reminds himself, these two are his friends. “I’m meeting up with some people this evening, and I’m a little nervous.”

“Oh that’s nice though,” Cosette says immediately. She sits down on the edge of Enjolras’s desk and folds one leg over the other. “Why are you nervous?”

“Is one of them the friend, who you, uh?” Marius asks. When Enjolras looks up, he’s waving awkwardly at Enjolras’s neck.

“Maybe,” Enjolras says. He risks a glance at Cosette, who’s smiling in a way that strongly implies Marius told her all about Enjolras’s love bite. He forgot to shout at Grantaire last night, but he’ll remember tonight.

“What’s his name?” Marius asks.

“He goes by R,” Enjolras says, since what’s the harm.

Cosette makes a small noise. When he looks at her, she’s smiling broadly. “Sorry, it’s just so nice to hear you have a boyfriend!”

Enjolras feels his cheeks heat, but that’s the problem with having practically translucent skin. It doesn’t mean he’s actually embarrassed or anything like that. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Enjolras says firmly. “He’s a friend.”

“Still!” Cosette hops off his desk and kisses his cheek. “I’m still happy!”

Enjolras is also happy - or at least content - for the length of time that Cosette and Marius stay in his office, annoying him. But then they leave to do their own work and the tight feeling in his stomach comes back with avengence.

“You’re being ludicrous,” he tells himself, as he shuts down his computer at just after six that evening. His legs and arms are shaking. Because he’s _ludicrous_.

Combeferre texts just as Enjolras is stepping out of the building to ask if he’d like to meet outside the Corinth.

As Enjolras is trying to think of an answer through the pounding in his pulse, Grantaire also messages: _need someone to hold your hand?_

Enjolras breathes carefully, accepts Combeferre’s offer, tells Grantaire he’s meeting Combeferre and then sets off for the meeting.

The walk from the metro to the Corinth is one that he’s done a million times before, but familiarity doesn’t help in this case. He can hear his breath whistling as it tries to make its way out of his throat.

“Enjolras!” Combeferre calls, striding up and then falling into step beside Enjolras. “Good evening. How are you?”

“Good evening,” Enjolras says, far too stiffly. “Um. I mean. Hi.”

Combeferre tucks his hand into the crook of Enjolras’s arm as though everything is as it used to be. “Good day?”

“Uh, yes,” Enjolras says, while his stomach rolls so badly that he worries he’s going to be sick. “Sorry, yes. What about you?”

“Eh, not fantastic.” Combeferre pulls Enjolras out of the way of a couple coming the other way. “A patient told me that he didn’t want to be treated by a Muslim doctor and I reacted… well, not in the way I should have.”

“Did you punch him?” asks Enjolras, his nerves forgotten in the angry rush to do just that.

Combeferre laughs. “No, but I did say, ‘die then’ and walk out of the room.”

“Oh wow,” Enjolras says, smiling at the mental picture. “Are you in trouble?”

“Quite a lot,” Combeferre agrees, “but I don’t regret it and I’d do it again.”

They’ve reached the Corinth now. It’s a tall, stone building that’s been around since at least the time of the Revolution. He and Combeferre first discovered it as undergrads, but it was Courfeyrac - of course - who persuaded the staff to let l’ABC meet there.

Enjolras doesn’t recognise the people behind the bar anymore, but Combeferre obviously does, since he greets them all with a smile and a wave.

“Is this him?” a tall, Indian woman asks, slipping out from behind the bar and following Combeferre and Enjolras up the stairs. “This is your fearless leader?”

Enjolras is so incredibly far from fearless right now that, if she weren’t behind him, he thinks he might have turned around and run away.

“This is Enjolras,” Combeferre says, stopping on the stairs to make introductions. “Enjolras, this is Musichetta. She’s a very valuable member of the ABC.”

“It’s good to meet you, Musichetta,” Enjolras says, offering her his hand.

She shakes it, politely not mentioning how hard he’s trembling. “By valuable, Ferre mostly means I keep Joly and Bossuet in line.”

“That’s not at all what I mean,” Combeferre says. “Although your service in that regard is noted and appreciated.”

Musichetta laughs and pats Enjolras on the back. “Come on, blondie, they won’t bite.”

“From what I’ve heard, Grantaire might,” Combeferre says innocently.

“What?” Enjolras asks, following him when he starts to climb the stairs again. “Combeferre?”

Combeferre ignores him. 

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but - ” Enjolras starts, only to cut himself off abruptly, because they’ve reached the meeting room at the top of the stairs and everyone is there.

Well, not everyone, since Grantaire is conspicuously missing, but everyone else: Joly and Bossuet, who light up when they see Musichetta; Jehan, who is chatting to Bahorel from the tattoo shop; Feuilly, from Courfeyrac’s work; and Courfeyrac himself, watching them arrive with a soft smile on his face.

Enjolras can’t move. 

In the past, this would have been the time when he’d sweep into the room, and take the floor. Now, he can’t even say hello.

“Enjolras!” Joly calls, from his seat by the wall. “Come and sit with us, we have snacks.”

Musichetta gives Enjolras another push, so he disentangles his arm from Combeferre’s and takes the offered seat beside Joly. “Snacks?” he asks, a little desperately.

Joly smiles at him, reaching over and putting his hand on Enjolras’s knee. “Snacks! Not sure what yet, Bos was supposed to be getting some from the bar. Bossuet? Snacks?”

Bossuet stands up obediently, trips over Joly’s neatly stacked crutches and lands in his lap. It puts him much closer to Enjolras.

“Hi!” he says, and reaches over to ruffle Enjolras’s hair. “Looking smart.”

Before Enjolras can answer, Bossuet turns his attention back to Joly, looping an arm around his neck and kissing him, and then still kissing him as he slowly stands up. 

They’ve been together for as long as Enjolras has known them, but they look more _together_ now. Rather than best friends who also sleep together, they now look like they’re in love. Enjolras wonders if that’s Musichetta’s influence, if she was what they were waiting for all along.

“I’m not going to kiss you, but it is good to see you,” Bossuet tells Enjolras, before patting his hair again and heading to the bar.

Enjolras spends longer than he needs to putting his curls to rights, just so he doesn’t have to look around the room. He can _tell_ everyone is watching him, he doesn’t have to see it too.

“Have you seen Captain Marvel?” Joly asks randomly, shifting around so he’s facing Enjolras.

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says, when what he means is _I don’t have time for movies_.

“Oh you should!” Joly lights up, waving a hand enthusiastically. “It’s _awesome_ , and there’s a _cat_!”

“Cats are cool,” Enjolras says, a bit helplessly. “Courfeyrac has one.”

Somehow, Joly smiles even wider. “He has the best cat, better even than the one in Captain Marvel. Do you have a cat? Or a dog? Or a… stick insect?”

“He has a vast collection of absolutely nothing,” Grantaire says, falling into the seat beside Enjolras, which has been left conveniently empty. “Hi, also. Sorry, sorry, I totally meant to be on time today, sorry.”

“Why are you apologising to me? It’s not my meeting,” Enjolras asks. That doesn’t even sting. He doesn’t want to run a meeting like this ever again. The responsibility is terrifying.

Grantaire just rolls his eyes and slides down in his chair, accepting a packet of crisps as his due, when Bossuet returns and places one on his head.

“Those were yours,” Bossuet tells Enjolras. “Now R’s going to have to share with you.”

“Oh no,” Grantaire says, not sounding as though he minds at all. He pulls the packet open noisily and offers them to Enjolras.

Around them, people are moving chairs, still chatting but starting to quieten down a little. Within moments, they’ve formed a rough circle, and Combeferre is clapping his hands for attention.

“Good evening,” he says, “and welcome. For those of you who don’t know him, our very good friend Enjolras is here with us this evening.”

“Yay!” calls Courfeyrac - of course it’s Courfeyrac. “Yayjolras!” 

Next to him, Jehan rolls their eyes.

Enjolras looks pleadingly at Combeferre, who swiftly changes the subject.

There’s a young woman who Enjolras doesn’t know at the back of the room. She hasn’t joined the circle, just leaning back against the bar, arms folded. She frowns at him, then looks away when she sees him looking back.

“That’s Eponine,” Grantaire murmurs in his ear, so close that Enjolras shivers. “She’s mean and she’ll cut you. I adore her.”

Enjolras nods, trying to pay attention to everything at once. It’s harder than it should be, because all he can think about is the last time he was in this room. They hadn’t sat in a circle back then, preferring to mingle around haphazardly arranged tables, and of course they have more members now, but everything else feels very much the same.

“Hey,” Grantaire whispers to him. “Breathe.”

“I am,” Enjolras says, but that might be a lie. The last time he was here, they’d made cheerful, enthusiastic plans for what was supposed to be a peaceful climate change protest. If his plans had been better thought out, if they’d taken more time, Courfeyrac would never have been hurt.

The pain in his chest which he’d managed to forget about comes back full force, and it’s only the desire not to make a scene that keeps him sitting fully upright.

He can hear his own breathing, can see Joly glancing at him more and more frequently, obviously concerned. He’s on the brink of having to excuse himself from the meeting, when he feels a touch of warmth against his wrist.

Grantaire’s fingers brush the back of his hand, then his palm. Enjolras thinks it’s a question.

Enjolras turns his hand and grips Grantaire’s tight. Grantaire’s hand is larger than his, warmer and broader and very solid. There’s a little clump of something hard at the base of his thumb, which turns out to be green paint, when Enjolras glances down to look at it.

He focuses all his concentration on gently flaking the paint off and slowly finds that he can breathe more normally again.

By the time Combeferre calls a break, Enjolras hasn’t heard a word of the meeting - something about their plans for Pride, he thinks and wishes he’d been able to listen.

“Okay?” Grantaire asks, while the others start to move around them, most people heading to the bar or out onto the balcony for a smoke.

“Yeah, yes,” Enjolras says. He pulls in a deep breath and it barely rattles at all. It still hurts, but he knows from previous experience that it will eventually fade. “Sorry, if my, uh, my fiddling was annoying.”

Grantaire looks down at his mostly-paint free hand and shrugs. “Feel free to fiddle with me whenever you want.”

Enjolras tries not to smile and encourage him, but fails miserably. He watches as Jehan steps out onto the balcony with a glance in their direction, watches Grantaire catch their eye and shake his head.

“You can go with them, if you want to smoke,” Enjolras tells him. “I don’t need babysitting.”

Grantaire looks as though he wants to protest, but his knee has also started to bounce in a way that Enjolras has come to learn means he really wants a cigarette. “Okay,” he says, “but text me, if you’re going to flee, okay?”

“I’m not going to flee,” Enjolras says. “I’m staying for the whole meeting.” If he tells himself that often enough, he’ll have to make it come true.

Grantaire releases his hand with a squeeze. He looks as though he wants to kiss Enjolras goodbye, and Enjolras realises he would like that very much, but Grantaire doesn’t do it.

Grantaire’s chair is empty for about half a second, before Courfeyrac drops down into it. “Hi!” he says. “You came.”

“I said I would,” Enjolras says. Courfeyrac is smiling so widely, it’s both humbling and confusing.

“And we never doubted you,” Combeferre says, taking Joly’s empty chair and pulling it around so he’s facing them both. “What did you think?”

“It’s interesting,” Enjolras says, “it was interesting.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “You weren’t really listening, huh? I saw you getting all cosy with R.”

“I wasn’t!” Enjolras says, startled into looking up and actually meeting Courfeyrac’s eyes. He feels himself blush.

Courfeyrac’s smile widens.

“Shut up,” Enjolras says automatically, because that’s what you say when Courfeyrac looks at you like that. “Combeferre yelled at a racist patient today.”

“Ferre!” Courfeyrac says delightedly. “You rebel.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Combeferre scolds them both. It’s so familiar that it makes Enjolras’s chest ache in whole new ways.

“Sorry, Ferre,” Courfeyrac says, with a wink for Enjolras.

“Sorry, Ferre,” Enjolras echoes because he thinks it might make them laugh. It does and then he isn’t sure what to do with himself.

He looks up when the balcony doors open, half-hoping it will be Grantaire, since Grantaire will probably save him from this conversation he doesn’t know how to have. Instead of Grantaire though, it’s Jehan, who squares their shoulders before heading over.

“Do you want anything from the bar?” they ask, leaning over the back of Courfeyrac’s chair.

Courfeyrac tilts his head back and smiles up at them. “Do they sell Jehans?”

“You already have one of those, silly,” Jehan says, smiling in a way that looks helpless.

“Then I have everything I could ever want.” Courfeyrac pulls on a long lock of their hair until they lean down and kiss him.

“And you teased Enjolras for being smitten,” Combeferre says fondly, shaking his head.

“I’m not smitten,” Enjolras protests, which he realises was exactly the wrong thing to say when Jehan stops kissing Courfeyrac to frown at him. “I mean.”

“Are you getting something?” Courfeyrac asks Jehan. When they shake their head, he pulls them around into the circle and down onto his lap. 

Enjolras watches as Jehan automatically settles their weight on Courfeyrac’s left thigh, letting him stretch out his right leg between Jehan’s feet without either of them needing to discuss it. 

Courfeyrac wraps his arms around Jehan’s waist and leans his chin on their shoulder. Jehan puts their hands over Courfeyrac’s, catching Enjolras’s attention when something flickers in the light.

There’s a diamond ring glittering on Jehan’s left hand. It’s pretty and simple, nothing like their usual aesthetic. Automatically, Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac’s hand to see if he’s wearing a matching one, but instead of a ring, Courfeyrac has a slightly discoloured, slightly frayed piece of ribbon, looped three times around his finger.

Courfeyrac sees him looking at it and wiggles his fingers. “Like my bling?” he asks. “There’s a very romantic story behind it.”

“I’m sure there is,” Enjolras says. He knows he needs to say something else, but can’t seem to remember how to hold a conversation. He hates how hard this is. “How did you… How long have…?”

He gives up.

“About three years,” Courfeyrac says, as though Enjolras managed to ask a coherent question. “They wooed me in my sick bed.”

“Someone had to keep you company,” Jehan says, without looking at anyone. It might not be a slight against Enjolras, but Enjolras definitely _feels_ it as one.

“J,” Courfeyrac murmurs, expression turning sad, “you said you’d be nice.”

“I said I’d try,” Jehan says, and oh, oh. Apparently it really _was_ a slight. The backs of Enjolras’s eyeballs burn, but at the same time it’s a relief. Everyone else has been so nice to him; at least Jehan understands that he’s a terrible person.

“I’m gone five minutes and two people steal my seat?” Grantaire asks from above Enjolras’s head. He puts a casual hand on Enjolras’s shoulder and squeezes.

“Shows it’s the best one,” Courfeyrac says. “Do you want us to move?”

“Nah.” Grantaire waves him off. “As long as my complaint has been… noted or whatever.”

“Filed,” Enjolras tells him. “If you’re the plaintiff, you file your complaint with the court.”

Grantaire drags his hand up from Enjolras’s shoulder to the nape of his neck. “How come it’s so much hotter when you do lawyer talk than when Courf does it?”

“Hey!” Courfeyrac protests, while Enjolras decides he has no idea what to say or what to do with his burning cheeks.

“We should probably restart,” Combeferre says, standing up and kicking his chair back into the circle. “There you go, R.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, turning the chair around so he can straddle it and lean his chin against the back. “See, Ferre loves me.”

Once the meeting gets started again, Jehan slides down from Courfeyrac’s lap to join Bahorel who has apparently decided to sit on the floor. Bossuet sits down with them after a minute.

Enjolras suspects Grantaire would be down there too, if he hadn’t appointed himself Enjolras’s guardian, but Enjolras is too selfish to suggest it.

“Now, moving on to the more serious stuff,” Courfeyrac says. Everyone turns to look at him, which means everyone is looking toward Enjolras. It’s far too much like it used to be, but he manages to get through it without reaching for Grantaire’s hand this time.

“Ooh I love serious stuff,” Joly says. “Are we going to stage a coup?”

“That’s next week,” Bahorel tells him.

“It is,” Courfeyrac agrees, so deadpan that it might actually be. “First though, we need to worry about the Patron-Minette dicks. We haven’t heard anything back about the eggs yet - ” He looks at Enjolras who shakes his head. He has no idea what Cosette has done with them. “ - but we’ve got to assume that they’re not going to be enough to stop them.”

“Should I be listening to this?” Enjolras asks in an undertone.

Courfeyrac ignores him, which Enjolras takes as a yes. 

“They put a stop to our last protest, so we’re going to be sneakier about this one.” Courfeyrac grins around at the assembled group, most of whom grin back. Eponine cracks her knuckles.

“We’ll be meeting here at six a.m. on Sunday,” Combeferre says. “We won’t be submitting notice to the police until the very last moment, so no one outside this room will know where the protest will be held until it begins.”

“In that case I really shouldn’t be listening,” Enjolras says, louder now. 

“E,” Courfeyrac scolds. “Sit down.”

It’s Enjolras’s turn to ignore him. He looks around at the others, forces himself to meet the eyes that are raised toward him even though it makes his heart beat double time. “I represent Patron-Minette,” he says, because at least some of them won’t know. “I work for their lawyers. I can’t know what you’re planning.”

There’s a buzz of comments, but Enjolras can’t make out individual words.

Grantaire touches his knee. “It’s not like you’re going to tell them, is it?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Of course not, but you can’t be sure of that.” _You shouldn’t trust me_ , he means.

He looks over at Jehan, because Jehan at least is angry with him, so maybe they’ll agree.

Jehan bites their lip and doesn’t say anything.

“Please,” Enjolras says and stands up, ignoring Courfeyrac’s protests. “I’d feel better, if I didn’t know.” He wants to touch Courfeyrac’s arm, squeeze Combeferre’s shoulder, but he makes himself nod at them, instead. “Good luck with the rest of the meeting.”

He shakes his head at Grantaire, who looks as if he’s about to follow him, gives another nod to the rest of the room and then lets himself out.

His knees shake so badly he barely gets down the stairs and when he does, he has to lean against the wall outside for a minute to catch his breath.

He did it. He went to the meeting. True, he didn’t stay for the whole thing, but he had a good reason not to.

He’s halfway home when he gets a text from Combeferre. It’s a link to google maps followed by a message:

_This is where we’re meeting. We took a vote. 100% unanimous. We trust you._

***

On Sunday morning, Enjolras is the first to arrive at the location Combeferre sent him. It wasn’t hard to achieve, since he’s been awake since two a.m. but the buzz of nervous adrenaline is keeping him upright and on his feet.

The place they’re meeting is a quiet, residential area on the very outskirts of Paris. It’s on the far side of the woods that are under threat, but you can’t see them from here, so it’s an odd location for a protest, but he has to trust that les amis know what they’re doing. 

Enjolras sits on a low wall by a small car park and wishes he hadn’t drunk his third coffee quite so quickly. 

A rusty, off-yellow van sweeps around the corner, brightly coloured bunting dancing along the roof rack and Enjolras jumps to his feet. 

“I can’t believe you still have this thing,” he says when Joly pulls up beside him, whispering because it’s still not quite six in the morning.

“I could never let her go,” Joly says, patting the van’s side. “Delores owns my heart and soul.”

“I thought that was me,” says Musichetta from the passenger seat, a baseball cap pulled down over her face.

“No, you own other parts of me, which I won’t name for fear of embarrassing Enjolras.”

Musichetta pushes up her cap and winks at Enjolras. “He seems like a man of the world to me.”

Enjolras steps back so Joly can open his door, then holds out his hand to help Joly down. “A gentleman,” Joly says, pressing a sleepy kiss to his cheek.

Enjolras stands with Joly, not really sure where else he can be useful, while Bahorel, Bossuet and Feuilly spill out from the back of the van. A moment later, Combeferre drives up in a zipcar and parks just behind them. 

“This is so cool,” Courfeyrac says, leaning over him from the passenger side to wave at Enjolras. “It’s like we’re all going away to camp!”

“You hated camp,” Enjolras says, accepting the flask of tea that Combeferre passed him through the window. “You called me every day to say you were miserable and the next year, you threatened to spend the summer hiding under my bed, if your grandmother made you go again.”

Courfeyrac grins at him. “Good times,” he says. “And, anyway, I wouldn’t have hated it if _we’d_ all been there. It was the racist rich kids I didn’t enjoy.”

Jehan climbs out of the back seat, holding two more flasks, and waits for Courfeyrac to climb out of the car, before handing one over. They catch Enjolras looking and offer him a small smile, but they don’t say good morning.

“Is, uh, is Grantaire not with you?” Enjolras asks. He hadn’t realised he’d been relying on Grantaire to be here to make things easier until this very moment.

“It’s cruel to make him get up this early,” Jehan says, still without quite looking at him. “He’s going to come by a bit later with second breakfast.”

Okay. Okay, Enjolras can cope with that. He doesn’t _need_ Grantaire like some sort of security blanket. 

“What are we actually doing here?” Enjolras asks Combeferre, while some of the others start unloading boxes from the back of Joly’s van.

“A sit in,” Combeferre tells him. “The least controversial and most peaceful sit in you will ever experience.” He waves to the open green space that makes up the centre of this little piece of suburbia. “The plan is to make everyone love us, so they’ll listen when we tell them this development is appalling.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” Enjolras says, “different.”

Combeferre shrugs. “We’re adults now. We don’t just get to shout really loud at cops and hope it gets us somewhere.”

“Is that why everyone’s all…” He waves a hand at them all. Combeferre and Bahorel’s long sleeves are pulled down over their tattoos, Courfeyrac is wearing dark colours for once. Jehan has pulled their long hair up and hidden it under a beanie hat, and Bossuet’s sweatshirt is so baggy that any hint of his binder is completely hidden.

“Normal?” Combeferre asks. “Boring?”

“Delightful,” Courfeyrac says, leaning his pointy chin on Enjolras’s shoulder from behind. “We look _delightful_ … and also really boring and straight.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide who you are to make your point,” Enjolras says. “If people won’t listen to you because of preconceived notions of - ”

Courfeyrac puts a warm hand over Enjolras’s mouth. “We know, sweetie,” he says. “We’ve had this discussion many times over many years, but it _works_ and it’s fun to trick people, so hush.”

“We’re undercover,” Bossuet says, “like spies.”

Everyone seems to have everything so much under control, that Enjolras ends up standing to one side, feeling like a spare part, while the grassy area gets completely taken over. Jehan and Bahorel set up a couple of long trestle tables, laying cutesy tablecloths over them, Musichetta brings a giant urn, Courfeyrac is in charge of setting out tea cups.

“What the hell?” Enjolras asks quietly.

He’s not really speaking to be heard, but it’s less of a surprise than it might have been, when Combeferre laughs and pats his arm. 

“It’s worked before; you’d be surprised.”

Within the hour, it’s clear it’s working this time, too. At first, the only people out and about at this time on a Sunday are the early morning dog walkers. Joly makes rapturous friends with a tiny dachshund puppy, which leads to Jehan luring his owner over to the tables with the promise of cake.

Once she has a chocolate cupcake in her hand, she seems much more receptive to standing around, listening to people earnestly tell her why she should be protesting a development she has apparently barely heard of.

“You could help, you know,” Courfeyrac says to Enjolras, passing him on the way back to the van for more supplies. It doesn’t sound like censure, it sounds like assurance that he’d be welcome, but Enjolras still finds himself tensing.

“I think you all have it under control,” he says. He’s largely been watching, and collecting used cups, because Joly doesn’t want to risk serving anyone tea in a dirty mug.

“Well, obviously, but you’d be really good at this too,” Courfeyrac says, shifting a large tupperware of cupcakes into the crook of one arm. He balances a round cake tin on top, then leans forward to grab a water canister from the ground.

Enjolras watches him wince and then very obviously try to hide it.

“Let me get that,” Enjolras says, automatically scolding. He grabs the canister and then takes the cake tin as well. “And that.”

“I can manage,” Courfeyrac starts then stops himself, widening his eyes theatrically. “I mean, I can’t _possibly_ manage, what _ever_ am I to do? If only a big, strong man would carry all this to the table for me. And then stay at the table. All morning.”

Enjolras favours him to the most withering look he remembers how to make. “That has never worked on me,” he says.

Courfeyrac flutters his eyelashes. They’re ridiculously long, thick and dark, and together with his melting chocolate eyes, they’ve always got him exactly what he wanted. Enjolras really is (mostly) immune.

“Fucking fine,” he mutters and carries the cakes and water over to the table.

“Yay, hi!” Joly says, catching his hand. “Did you meet our new dog friends?”

The lady with the dachshund has returned, bringing a friend and the friend’s two golden cockapoo puppies. Everyone is very distracted, and Enjolras allows himself to be too, until he notices an older man, hovering near the end of one of the tables.

“Good morning, sir,” Enjolras says, without giving himself time to think about what he’s doing. “Can I get you a cup of tea? Coffee?”

The old man narrows his eyes, looking Enjolras up at down. “Is it hippy coffee?” he asks.

“Probably,” Enjolras allows. 

For some reason, that makes the man’s mouth twitch. Enjolras, who had been prepared to throw down to defend fair trade coffee beans, feels more than a little off-balance.

Instead, he makes coffee as quickly as he can, adds sugar to the man’s exacting instructions and then waits while he takes a sip.

“Not bad,” the man says. He waves an impatient had at Enjolras. “Tell me what you’re about then, go on. You have until I’ve finished this and I drink fast.”

Enjolras doesn’t think, he just talks. He used to be so good at this - is still good at this in court, but he hasn’t used it for anything he’s cared about in years. 

He doesn’t know if he convinces the old man of anything, but he does get him to take two pamphlets to read at his leisure, a very hippy looking badge, and a slice of sour cherry cake to take home to his wife.

“Maybe we should just open a coffee shop,” Jehan says, very quietly, from close beside him. “You’d make a killing.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Enjolras says honestly, letting himself daydream for a moment about spending his days selling coffee and never again having to see Thenardier or any of his ilk.

A car sweeps into the square just then, carrying Grantaire who gives them a royal wave from the passenger seat and Eponine who does not. “Greetings,” Grantaire calls. “I arrive late, carrying Starbucks.” 

He hops out, pays the driver, and hefts two overflowing paper bags out of the bag seat, one of which he hands to Eponine.

“Pastries?” Joly asks eagerly. 

“Pastries,” Grantaire confirms. He is indeed also carrying a huge cup of Starbucks coffee, balancing it precariously on top of the bag.

Enjolras can’t help smiling at the sight of him, even though he doesn’t look any different from the last time Enjolras saw him. Maybe a little more sleep-rumpled, but that’s it.

Jehan catches Enjolras’s eye and looks as though they’re about to say something. Before they can, there’s a rustle of leaves from the trees in front of them. 

Enjolras turns, just in time to see the glint of weak sunlight on metal. There’s a sound that Enjolras doesn’t recognise, a strange sort of pop-hiss, and something comes flying out from between the leaves.

Both Enjolras and Jehan spin around, just in time to see Courfeyrac, who was happily chatting to a couple of young girls, take a startled step back, stumble, and sit down hard on the uneven grass.

There’s something red on the front of his shirt, dripping down his arms and splattered across his face.

Enjolras’s world stops turning.

Again.

Jehan makes a broken, bitten-off noise and runs forward.

Enjolras can’t move.

“Courf?” he hears Jehan say, patting frantically over Courfeyrac’s chest and stomach with shaking hands, while everyone else starts to converge on them too.

“I’m okay,” Courfeyrac says quickly then stops, looks down at his shirt and says, slower, “I… am okay?” He plucks his shirt away from his skin, looks down at it and frowns. Then he laughs. The sound raises all the hair on Enjolras’s arms. “It’s paint. J, sweetheart, stop. It’s _paint_!”

Enjolras’s ears start to buzz.

“Paint?” Musichetta demands, looking all around. “Who would do that?”

“Fucking bastards,” Bossuet agrees.

Enjolras watches as Jehan stops their panicky checking and instead runs their fingers through the wetness on Courfeyrac’s shirt. They pull their hand away, stare at it for a moment then fold into Courfeyrac with a sound of relief, clutching him hard. 

Bahorel steps away from them and starts toward the tree line. Combeferre falls in beside him and they both disappear between the thick leaves and heavy branches.

“Breathe,” someone says in Enjolras’s ear and Grantaire’s warm, familiar arm wraps around his waist.

“Paint?” Enjolras asks, because that’s more important than oxygen. “It’s paint?”

“It’s paint,” Grantaire promises, then makes a started noise when Enjolras abruptly has to squat down, his knees too watery to hold him.

“Oh, J, J, please don’t,” Courfeyrac is whispering into Jehan’s hair. Enjolras knows he should look away, but he can’t. It doesn’t seem like anyone else can either. The ABC are crowded around the two of them in a loose circle, protective and angry. Eponine stands a step or two back, staring hard into the tree line.

When the trees rustle again, Enjolras’s first thought is that he can’t take any more. It makes him hate himself more than he usually does, because that’s not _him_ ; he can take any amount of trouble. He hates this weak person he’s become.

“Nothing,” Combeferre says, emerging with an angry glint in his eye. Bahorel follows him a moment later, shaking his head.

“Fucker must have run. Coward.”

“Why would anyone do this?” Joly asks, sounding baffled. “Courf, are you okay? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”

Jehan sits up abruptly, asking, “Oh fuck, did you?”

Courfeyrac gives them both a weak, shaky smile. “No, no, don’t worry. I just landed on my arse. I hope it’s not bruised, it’s my sexiest feature.”

Jehan laughs, just as shaky as Courfeyrac sounded. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you that you barely have any arse.”

Courfeyrac gasps. “Lies and falsehoods, how dare you? Give me back my ring.”

Enjolras will give them both credit; they’re both pretending hard not to be freaked out. He wishes he was doing as well.

Combeferre has taken his place in the circle around them, standing defensively at Courfeyrac’s back. Now he reaches down and runs gentle fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair. 

Courfeyrac tips his head back and looks up at him. Enjolras is at the wrong angle to see the expression on his face, but whatever it is, makes Combeferre nod.

“Why don’t you head home and get cleaned up? The rest of us can finish up here.”

“I don’t just want to abandon you all,” Courfeyrac protests while the others murmur their agreement with Combeferre.

“Courf,” Jehan says firmly. “I think everyone would be happier if you stopped being covered in bright red stuff.” They look down at their own pinafore dress, which is liberally smeared with paint from Courfeyrac’s skin and clothes.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, you’re all such worriers.” But he doesn’t resist when Combeferre and Jehan help him to his feet. He glances over at Enjolras - no, at Grantaire, not at Enjolras, and says, “R? Are you coming?”

“Coming,” Grantaire agrees. He squeezes Enjolras’s shoulder. “You too, come on.”

“What? No?” Enjolras frowns at him. “I don’t live with you.”

“You should be so lucky,” Grantaire agrees. He’s pale, but then so is everyone, even the people who just live around here and saw what happened. “Please come, though.”

“Why?”

Grantaire almost but not quite rolls his eyes. “I’m feeling pretty freaked out, I thought I just saw one of my best friends get shot and I’d like it if you were with me, for a while.”

Enjolras is almost certain that he’s being played, but it’s not as if anything Grantaire just said was a lie. Enjolras hasn’t felt anything since he saw Courfeyrac fall, and he feels too blank to argue.

“All right,” he says and stands up. His legs still feel odd, as if there’s a weakness trembling through them that he can’t do anything about.

Grantaire tucks his arm through Enjolras’s, says his goodbyes, and pulls Enjolras over to where Courfeyrac and Jehan are waiting for them.

Courfeyrac is leaning hard on his cane, fingers white around it, and Jehan is hovering, face worried.

“Let’s get the bus,” they say, glancing at their phone. “There’s one in five minutes.”

“What’s wrong with the Metro?” Courfeyrac asks. “It’s quicker.”

Jehan shakes their head at him. “It’s further for you to walk.”

Courfeyrac makes a tsking noise. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt. And anyway, I can’t get on a bus looking like this, they’ll kick me straight back off.” He waves at his still-dripping clothes.

“Here.” Enjolras releases Grantaire’s arm and pulls off his red hoodie, which he’s wearing again today. “This will cover it.”

Courfeyrac takes the hoodie automatically, when Enjolras hands it over, then stops. “I can’t; I’ll ruin it. This is a historic artifact, Enjolras.”

“Just put it on,” Enjolras says, not quite able to keep a small smile from his lips. They used to swap clothes all the time when they shared a flat, until it got to a point in second year where Enjolras couldn’t have said what belonged to him and what to Courfeyrac.

When his parents cleared out his room for him, they managed to bring back only his clothes, which had broken his heart, imagining Combeferre or Courfeyrac carefully picking themselves out of his life before boxing it all up.

“Farewell, hoodie friend,” Courfeyrac says and pulls it on slowly and awkwardly, as if he doesn’t want to twist around too much.

“Courf,” Jehan murmurs softly.

“Shh,” Courfeyrac says, emerging with messier hair and an almost-hidden wince. “Please.”

Enjolras is cold in only his underlayer, but he barely has a chance to shiver, before Grantaire is pulling off his own leather jacket and laying it over Enjolras’s shoulders. Enjolras would protest, but Grantaire has a sweatshirt under his jacket and all Enjolras has is a t-shirt. Besides, Grantaire’s jacket is warm and heavy and the weight of it feels like a hug.

“I feel like I should give someone some of my clothes,” Jehan says, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “R, would you like some hair clips? They’re very cute.”

“Go on then,” Grantaire says, ducking his head so Jehan can slip a sparkling dragonfly clip from their own hair and into his curls. When he straightens, he smiles at Enjolras. “How do I look?”

Enjolras wants to say something that will make Grantaire smile or make him pout. In an ideal world, he’d like to make them all laugh. All the words get stuck on his tongue.

There’s enough time for the others to notice, but not enough time for anyone to call him out on it, before the bus arrives and the four of them pile on, Grantaire and Enjolras taking the two seats behind Jehan and Courfeyrac.

Grantaire puts his hand on top of Enjolras’s, lacing their fingers together, sparing Enjolras from having to work up the energy to turn his hand over.

“A paint gun, though,” Enjolras says, the one thought that’s been circling around in his head. “That’s cruel and childish. Why would they do that?”

There’s silence.

“To let us know it could have been a real gun,” Courfeyrac says, apparently the only one of them prepared to actually say it.

“You didn’t see anything?” Grantaire asks. “You and Jehan were the closest.”

“ _I_ didn’t,” Jehan says, turning around in their seat. Courfeyrac has shifted too, but doesn’t seem able to turn enough to face Enjolras and Grantaire. They should have sat in front, Enjolras thinks, to spare himself from having to think about how Courfeyrac might be really hurt.

Enjolras blinks when he realises Jehan is looking at him, fire in their green eyes. “Neither did I,” he says, at a loss. “We both saw the same things, didn’t we? Just the trees moving and a flash from the gun just before it went off.”

“Hm,” is all Jehan says.

Courfeyrac leans in toward Jehan, saying something too softly for Enjolras to hear. When Jehan responds, it’s softer still but somehow obviously agitated.

“I didn’t betray you,” Enjolras hears himself say, realising what they must be whispering about and his mouth responding before his brain can catch up.

Courfeyrac leans his forehead against Jehan’s temple for a second, looking exhausted, then shoots Enjolras a bright smile over his shoulder. “No, no of course not! No one thinks that!”

“Jehan obviously does.” Enjolras doesn’t know why he’s upset about this; _more_ people should be suspecting him, not less, but now that it’s actually happening, he feels as if he’s been kicked in the sternum.

Jehan shakes their head rapidly, not looking at him. Enjolras wants to push, but you don’t push Jehan into confrontation, especially not in public. Besides, none of his anger is actually aimed at Jehan; it’s all for himself.

Grantaire squeezes his hand, half reassurance, half warning.

The rest of the bus ride is silent, except for quiet murmurs between Courfeyrac and Jehan and a baby crying from the backseat.

“Perhaps I should just go home,” Enjolras says, when they get off the bus around the corner from Grantaire’s shop. He could walk home from here without freezing, even if Grantaire wants his jacket back.

“Oh hush,” Grantaire says and pulls Enjolras along with the rest of them toward their apartment. 

By the time they reach the tattoo shop, Courfeyrac’s mouth is tight, his tanned skin greying and his hands are shaking.

“Should we have gone to the hospital?” Jehan asks, hovering. “I can call an uber and get us there in ten minutes.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I just need a bath and a lie down.” He reaches out and grips Jehan’s hand tightly. “Don’t look so scared. I’m all right.”

He’s very clearly not, but it isn’t Enjolras’s place to argue with him anymore. Instead, he hangs back, lurking awkwardly in the living room while Jehan and Courfeyrac disappear into the bathroom. Their little grey cat seems to appear from nowhere and follows them inside, while Grantaire leans against the doorframe, offering his help.

Enjolras feels sick. He’s never been particularly affected by other people’s emotions, but they’re getting to him today. He makes his way into the kitchen with the vague intention of making tea for everyone, but he ends up just staring blankly down into the sink when he tries to fill the kettle.

“Careful,” says Grantaire, gently chiding, before he leans over him, turning off the tap and tipping some of the excess water away.

“Sorry,” says Enjolras, relinquishing the kettle, and watching while Grantaire puts it on to boil. “I thought… tea?”

“Fantastic idea.” Grantaire hip-checks him out of the way, reasonably carefully, so he can get to the cupboard that Enjolras was standing in front of. “Jehan’s in their room getting Courf some clean clothes. Why don’t you go ask them if they want any?”

Enjolras frowns at Grantaire, who looks placidly back at him. 

“Please?” Grantaire says. “For me?”

Enjolras honestly doesn’t want to, but he’s never got anywhere by being a coward. At least, he never _used_ to get anywhere that way. “Fine.”

Grantaire blinks. “Wait, really? I was not expecting that to work. I hope you know what power you’ve given me.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras says, not sure what else to say. He turns away, only to find his arm caught by Grantaire. “What? You told me to go.”

“One second,” Grantaire says. He looks nervous, and Enjolras braces himself, but all that happens is that Grantaire leans forward and kisses him fast and hard. Why he’d be nervous about that, considering what else they’ve done together, Enjolras has no idea.

Still, he kisses him back, then finds himself touching his lips with his fingertips as he walks out of the kitchen.

Enjolras knows which bedroom is Grantaire’s, and the spare room’s door is standing open, so he opts for the closed door nearest the bathroom. Knocking firmly, he calls, “Jehan?”

“Mmhmm?” Jehan answers from somewhere inside the room.

“Grantaire’s making tea. Would you like some?”

Jehan gives some answer, but Enjolras can’t make out what it is. “Pardon?”

There’s a pause, then Jehan says, “You can come in.”

Despite the permission, Enjolras still feels as if he’s intruding, when he turns the handle and pushes open the door. 

Jehan and Courfeyrac’s bedroom is predictably eclectic inside. Beaded curtains cover the windows sending prisms of colour dancing across the walls, and over the cat who is now curled up one one of the pillows. 

Toppling piles of books sit on both sides of the double bed. There’s a sewing machine in one corner, with an electric guitar propped up against it that Enjolras remembers falling over more mornings than he could count. He wonders if Courfeyrac has ever actually learnt to play it.

“Was that a yes or no to tea?” Enjolras asks, when Jehan doesn’t say anything.

Jehan nods. “Yeah, please.” They’re leaning back against the wall in the shadowiest part of the room. The parts of their face that Enjolras can see are very pale.

“Jehan?” Enjolras asks uncertainly. 

“Courf’s in the bath. We’ll wash your hoodie and get it back to you soon. Thanks for letting him borrow it; it helped not to have people staring on the bus.”

“That’s okay,” Enjolras says, at a loss. “Are you all right?”

Jehan sucks in a deep breath. They rub their palms over their eyes, shaking their head. “Nothing,” they say quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Shall I fetch R?” Enjolras asks, since that’s certainly not true, but he wouldn’t blame Jehan if they don’t want to confide in _him_.

“I’m not crying, I’m just panicking,” Jehan says. “What kind of bastards cover people in paint that looks like blood?”

Enjolras shakes his head. 

Jehan pulls their sleeves down over their hands and uses them to wipe their face again. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I know you wouldn’t have had anything to do with that.” 

Enjolras still can’t think of anything to say. Everyone in his life is either someone he’s kept at a distance, like Marius and Cosette, or someone who is being painfully careful with him, like Grantaire and Combeferre and all the others. He’s carefully avoided anything even vaguely resembling conflict, and now he’s forgotten how to deal with it.

Jehan looks up at him, pushing their long hair out of their face. “It’s just, it’s just… I don’t regret a single second of being with Courf, but watching him struggle has been so hard, and there was a second earlier when I thought it was starting all over again.”

Enjolras folds his arms around his middle, telling himself that he can’t get upset because Jehan already is, and Jehan has so much more right to panic than Enjolras has.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can think to say.

“Are you?” Jehan sniffs. “Wouldn’t it just give you an excuse to go away again?”

Enjolras tries to control his expression, but he can’t stop his flinch. “I wouldn’t,” he says, but it sounds like a lie to himself.

Jehan is wringing their hands together convulsively, rubbing their palms up and down their arms and smearing the remains of the flowers that Grantaire drew there the other day. They look dreadful. Enjolras thinks they might feel how he does inside and he’s actually a little jealous that they’re brave enough to show it.

“I can’t, I can’t have anyone else getting hurt. I _can’t_. I.” They look up at Enjolras with wide, glassy eyes. “ _Please_ don’t hurt anyone else I love.”

Enjolras just shakes his head. His neck feels stiff, beyond his control, so it’s more of a jerk than a shake.

Jehan stares at him and, as they do, their expression collapses in on itself, all the anger draining away into exhaustion. “God, I’m sorry. It was so much easier to hate you, when you weren’t standing in front of me, looking like _that_.”

Enjolras thinks about asking what exactly he looks like, but then decides he doesn’t want to know. “It’s entirely reasonable for you to hate me,” Enjolras says quickly. “Honestly, it’s a bit of a relief. You’re the only one who’s being honest.”

That makes Jehan frown. “Everyone is being honest. Courf and Ferre and the others are honestly just delighted to have you back, and Grantaire is… well, he seems pretty happy to be fucking you, so there’s that.”

Enjolras had been breathing in to protest that anyone could be uncomplicatedly happy to have him back. Now he chokes on that air and ends up making a tight wheezing sound.

Jehan ducks their head and smiles a tiny smile at him. “Actually, I am pleased to see you for one reason,” they say, while Enjolras gets his breath back.

“You are?” Enjolras croaks.

“Yeah.” Jehan twists their hair around their fingers, turning fidgety and shy now they’ve apparently decided to let go of their anger. “I want to plan my wedding.”

Enjolras frowns. “What have I got to do with that?” he asks. He hasn’t been letting himself hope to receive an invitation.

“Courf doesn’t want to get married without you and Ferre there to give him away,” Jehan says. They say it so simply that it takes Enjolras a moment to catch up. When he does, he can only say, “ _What_?”

Jehan shrugs. “You’re his family. He loves you.”

Enjolras is almost certain that Jehan knows exactly what they’re doing, and that this is a subtle continuation of Enjolras’s punishment. Regardless, his eyes fill with hot, embarrassing tears and he has to turn away.

“Hey, wasn’t some fiancee bringing me clothes?” Courfeyrac says, appearing in the doorway, before Enjolras can fully pull himself together. “Wait, what’s wrong? Did you two fight?”

“When do I ever fight with anyone?” Jehan asks shakily, and holds out their arms. 

Courfeyrac moves over to them. He’s only wearing boxers and a towel and he doesn’t have his cane. It’s obvious that he needs it, but Jehan meets him halfway and pulls him in, half holding him up, half clinging to him, pressing their face into his neck.

“What?” Courfeyrac asks, sounding bewildered but gamely hugging Jehan back. Enjolras wishes that he had someone whose arms he could simply walk into. Then he thinks of Grantaire and wishes instead that he was back in the kitchen with him.

Jehan shakes their head, which is tucked under Courfeyrac’s chin. Courfeyrac turns them both a little, reaching out his free hand to support himself against the wall, and Enjolras gets his first clear look at Courfeyrac’s bare back.

The skin across his lower back is dotted with scars: neat, straight surgery lines bracketed on both sides by dots from the staples that must have held him together; a messy, sunken white circle where the bullet must have entered.

“Sorry,” Enjolras stammers, which he knows makes no sense in context, but god, he’s _so_ sorry. “Tea. I’ll. Grantaire is…”

He backs away.

He hears Courfeyrac murmur something to Jehan and Jehan answer, then, “Hey,” Courfeyrac says, and turns. Warm fingers close around Enjolras’s wrist, stopping him from running away yet again. 

“Hey,” Enjolras repeats obligingly. He glances up at Courfeyrac then stops, because now Enjolras can see a star-shaped scar splashed across his abs, pale against his golden brown skin. 

He doesn’t mean to stare at it, but he can’t stop himself.

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac says quietly, and puts his free hand over the place where a bullet punched itself out through his skin. “I keep meaning to get R to tattoo over that, but I can never decide what I want. Like, would a peace sign be too corny? What do you think?”

Enjolras can’t take his eyes off the place where Courfeyrac’s fingers are spread across the scar -

_He took Courfeyrac’s bloody hands in his, pulling them up and away from his stomach. Joly had pushed up Courfeyrac’s shirt and was focused on his back, leaving Enjolras to stare at the place midway between Courfeyrac’s hip bone and navel, where the skin and muscles were ripped open -_

“Enjolras?” 

Enjolras blinks and finds himself back in the kitchen, standing in front of Grantaire. He has no memory of getting here, no idea what he said to Courfeyrac and Jehan to excuse himself from their bedroom.

“They, uh, they want tea,” says Enjolras, even though he’s not sure he ever actually got an answer to that. His head feels as though it’s full of mist and he’s breathless as if he’s been on an endless run. He’s used to seeing that day over and over again in his dreams, but it’s been a while since it happened while he was awake.

“You all right?” Grantaire pokes Enjolras in the arm. “You look spacy.”

Enjolras shakes himself hard. His heart is pounding. “Do you have sugar? It’s good for shock.”

Grantaire stops poking and curls his hand around Enjolras’s bicep instead. His hand is so warm, or Enjolras is so cold, he’s not sure. Enjolras thinks about a few minutes ago, when he’d wished to be back here with Grantaire so that he could walk into Grantaire’s arms.

Now that the opportunity is here, he can’t bring himself to do it, can’t really imagine how Grantaire would react if he did.

“Sugar?” he asks again.

“Yes, honey?” Grantaire smirks at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are worried. “Yeah, that’s a good idea, hang on.”

Between them, they make four cups of tea and carry them out into the main living area. Enjorlas’s hands are shaking, but he manages only to spill a little tea onto his thumb as he sets a cup down onto the coffee table.

“Come on, sit the fuck down with me,” Grantaire says and pulls him down so they’re sharing the same side of one of the sofas.

Enjolras worries that Grantaire is going to try to get him to talk, but instead, Grantaire just leans quietly into his side. The two of them sit quietly together, sipping tea in silence. It gives Enjolras some of the space he needs to try to pull himself back together.

When Courfeyrac and Jehan join them, Jehan makes a beeline for one of the remaining mugs of tea and cuddles it to their chest like it’s a precious child. 

Courfeyrac is on the phone, humming in agreement to whatever the person on the other side of the call is saying. He moves as if to sit in one of the arm chairs, then stops at a soft sound from Jehan.

“But I won’t be able to drink tea if I’m lying down,” he protests, nevertheless moving over to the other empty sofa, which is apparently where Jehan wants him to be. “No, no, not you. Jehan’s being mean to me.”

“Literally didn’t say a word,” Jehan protests, but they smile when Courfeyrac lies down flat on the sofa. After a second, they place Courfeyrac’s tea on the floor beside him then sit down so Courfeyrac can put his head in their lap.

“Correction, Jehan is perfect,” Courfeyrac tells the person on the phone. After a few more hums, he ends the call and drops his phone onto the floor, almost but not quite landing it in his tea. “Ferre says they’re done with the police and they’re all going to gather at Joly’s for dinner.”

“The police?” Enjolras twitches so hard that he undoes most of his attempts at calming down, but he thinks his voice is fairly even. Grantaire must have felt the flinch, but all he does is put a casual hand on Enjolras’s thigh.

“Well, yeah? We were attacked.” Courfeyrac looks confused by Enjolras’s confusion, then he laughs. “We do things right these days. Plus, if all the lovely people who came out this morning see the police around this afternoon, they’ll ask what’s going on and they’ll feel _so_ sorry for how meanly we’ve been treated.”

“‘Those lovely young people who made us tea, being attacked on our own doorsteps?’” Enjolras asks, understanding.

Courfeyrac beams. “Exactly. Clever, right?” He looks up at Jehan, reaching up a hand to touch their jaw. “They’re going to want to talk to you. Is that okay?”

“Me?” Jehan asks, fingers tightening around the handle of their mug. “When?”

“You were closest to the woods, so they want to take your statement. Ferre says they’ll pop around tomorrow.”

“Won’t the police want to speak to me, too?” Enjolras asks, heart pounding. “I was standing with Jehan.”

“Ferre and I figured you’d want to keep your name out of it,” Courfeyrac answers. “Was that wrong?”

It’s not wrong at all, but it _feels_ wrong. “I… It would be better, of course. But if you need me to…” He trails off. He can’t do it. It’s not even a question of betraying his employers this time, as he’s increasingly failing to care about that. He _can’t_ speak to the police.

Jehan frowns at him, like they’re trying to read him. “No, it’s okay,” they say. “We don’t want to make you lose your job.”

“Don’t we?” Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras turns to him, frowning. 

Grantaire can’t spread his hands since one is holding tea and the other is on Enjolras’s thigh, but he somehow gives an impression of doing that, anyway. “It’s a terrible job you’re using to feel terrible about yourself, so yeah, you losing it sounds okay to me.”

“Agreed,” Courfeyrac says, unhelpfully. “Come and work with me instead! We have a hot chocolate machine in the breakroom and my boss’s husband bakes us cookies at least once a week.”

On the list of things that Enjolras can’t think about, the chance to work with Courfeyrac just like they’d always planned is pretty high up.

“Not everyone bases their career decisions on cookies.” Jehan says, with another quick glance at Enjolras.

“Why not?” Courfeyrac asks, sounding genuinely distressed. “Are they all right?”

Jehan smiles down at him. “Idiot.” They catch Courfeyrac’s hand, which had been wandering over their face and lace their fingers together. “Will you work from home tomorrow, while the police are here, please?”

“Reckon I was probably going to have to do that anyway,” Courfeyrac says with a grimace.

Jehan’s gaze sharpens. “If you won’t see a doctor, at least let me get you some painkillers.”

“No,” Courfeyrac says immediately, more abrupt that Enjolras is used to hearing him be to anyone. He turns his face into Jehan’s stomach, and says, softer, “I’m really okay. Promise. Although! I did land really hard on my arse; want to check it for bruises?”

Jehan laughs and lifts their joined hands to their mouth, biting lightly at Courfeyrac’s knuckles. “Behave,” they say, very, very fondly.

Enjolras glances away from them and finds himself automatically looking at Grantaire, instead. He’s starting to realise that he has always looked at Grantaire, even back when they first met, and Enjolras _had_ to keep checking on him, to make sure he wasn’t causing trouble.

Grantaire looks at Jehan and Courfeyrac and makes an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Do you ever feel like you’re in the middle of someone else’s love story?”

“I’ve never really given much thought to love,” Enjolras admits.

Grantaire gives him a smile that looks genuinely amused but also confusingly pained. “Trust me when I say I’m very aware of that.”

Enjolras frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire says blandly and nods over Enjolras’s shoulder. “Have you noticed you have a visitor?”

Enjolras turns and finds himself nose to nose with the little grey cat, who has apparently decided to sleep on the back of the sofa, just behind his head.

Enjolras jumps.

“How long has that been there?”

“She’s not a that!” Grantaire scolds, leaning over Enjolras to reach the cat. It leads to his solid, warm chest being pressed up against Enjolras’s, which turns out to be by far the best thing that’s happened to Enjolras today.

Grantaire sits back, the cat a willing lump of sleepy fur in his lap. “This is your niece; you should be nice to her.”

Enjolras doesn’t dignify that with a response. He does however let himself reach out and cautiously touch the cat between its pointy, grey ears. The cat makes a curious noise but doesn’t otherwise seem to object.

“What’s her name?”

“Angel,” Grantaire says, running his fingers through the cat’s fur. “She’s Courf and Jehan’s really, but she tolerates me.”

From what Enjolras knows of cats, the boneless way she’s melted into Grantaire and the volume at which she’s purring implies that she more than _tolerates_ him.

“Technically, her name is Angel Sweetie-Pie Sugar Dumpling,” Courfeyrac says, apparently without a trace of embarrassment.

“I think you mean Angel Kitty-Face Princess Fluffball,” Jehan says with a giggle, so clearly it’s an inside joke. To Enjolras, they explain, “We didn’t know what to call her so we just kept using a whole string of silly names while we decided on something sensible and dignified but… one of the silly names stuck so now she’s officially Angel.”

Enjolras tries stroking the cat, Angel, again. This time he gets no response at all so, emboldened, he keeps going. “She’s cute,” he tries, because people say that about cats. He’s also fairly certain it’s true, this is just the closest he’s ever come to one so he’s really not an expert.

His fingers tangle with Grantaire’s deep in Angel’s fur, and Grantaire strokes the back of Enjolras’s hand, which is probably an accident but still feels strangely reassuring.

“Want to come to Joly’s for dinner?” Grantaire asks him. “It’ll probably be food that Musichetta has smuggled home from the Corinth, so you know it’ll be good.”

The last thing that Enjolras wants to do is attend what’s bound to be a loud and boisterous dinner party. Except that if Grantaire is going, Enjolras will have to spend an evening alone, and he hates the thought of that even more.

“You’re going?” he checks.

Grantaire shrugs. “I’d like to.” 

“I think maybe I shouldn’t,” Courfeyrac says, sounding reluctant. “Not unless someone wants to hand feed me while I recline on Joly’s sofa.”

“Hm, that sounds messy,” Jehan says, after pretending to think about it. “Let’s just stay home.”

Courfeyrac frowns up at them. “No, no, you go if you want. I’ll be fine.”

Jehan frowns back. “But if I stay here, we can order takeout and cuddle.”

“Hm.” Courfeyrac smiles slowly. “All right, you win.” He tips his head toward Enjolras and Grantaire. “You kiddies go and have fun; leave us old people to our Netflix and chill.”

“I think that means sex,” says Enjolras, who had once learnt that from a highly blushing Marius.

“I’m so proud that you know that,” Courfeyrac says and blows him a kiss.

***

Dinner in Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s little apartment turns out to be much more relaxing than Enjolras expected.

He’d forgotten the pleasure of sitting quietly while his friends chatted and teased each other around him. Enjolras isn’t quiet and he’s never been shy, but he also isn’t particularly interested in small talk, so he has always preferred to listen to group conversations rather than joining in.

Tonight, he sits between Bahorel and Combeferre and opposite Grantaire and lets the familiar soak of familiar voices sink into his bones.

“That woman with the puppies has already emailed,” says Combeferre, leaning forward to address the whole table.

“Boo, no phones at the table,” Joly scolds, then leans forward. “Which woman with the puppies?”

“The one who was interested in campaigning door to door.” Combeferre puts his phone face down on the table with an apologetic smile. “She thinks her retired ladies knitting group would be willing too.”

“Fucking love a knitting group,” Bahorel says, without any sign of irony.

On Combeferre’s other side, Eponine, the quiet girl from the other night, continues to be quiet. “Maybe they can stab those fuckers with her knitting needles,” she mutters then goes straight back to attacking sweet potato cubes with her fork.

“Fucking right,” calls her brother from the other end of the table. He looks a lot more cheerful about it than she does.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks quietly, quiet enough that Enjolras is probably the only other one who hears.

Eponine spears a piece of broccoli so hard that Enjolras winces. Combeferre is clearly made of sterner stuff, because he doesn’t so much as blink.

“It was just shit, you know?” she says but doesn’t pause to make sure that he does know. “Like, what a cheap fucking trick to do that to Courfeyrac.”

Her voice has risen and she’s gaining a lot of people’s attention.

“A horrible trick,” Feuilly agrees.

“Yeah,” Joly sighs. “Why did it have to be Courf? That’s just not fair.”

Eponine drops her fork with a clatter. “I saw how scared you all were and…” She shrugs. “It was just a fucked up thing to do.”

“Because he got shot before,” Gavroche says brightly. “I wish I’d seen. Was there loads and loads of blood?”

Under the table, a foot connects gently with Enjolras’s ankle. When he doesn’t react, presuming it to be an accident, the foot connects again, much less gently this time.

He looks up, to find Grantaire looking back at him. “Yo,” Grantaire mouths and kicks him again.

“Ow?” Enjolras asks politely.

Grantaire grins and kicks him a third time. 

Enjolras knows that he’s being distracted from the conversation about Courfeyrac that’s going on around him, but he can’t say that he minds.

“Well,” Grantaire says loudly and stretches his way through a very fake yawn. “I’m beat and I’ve got an early start in the morning. Anyone mind if I shoot off?”

“Are you just trying to get out of doing the dishes?” Musichetta asks, but she tips her head back to smile up at him, when he stands up.

“You know me too well,” Grantaire says and bends down to kiss her cheek. When he straightens, he winks at Enjolras. “Coming, mon chéri?” 

“Not yet, but give him time,” Bossuet mutters, which earns him a round of immature sniggers. Enjolras ignores absolutely all of them, nods to Combeferre and moves to join Grantaire by the pile of coats in the corner.

“Could you have been any less subtle?” he hisses.

“Did you want to sit around listening to Gav ask for all the gory details about Courf getting shot?” Grantaire counters. “Because if you did, we can sit back down.”

“On second thought, you displayed a perfect amount of subtlety. Let’s go.”

Grantaire laughs as Enjolras drags him out of the door. It’s a street level apartment, so they’re outside immediately. A cool wind slaps Enjolras in the face, but then Grantaire slings an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders and Enjolras immediately feels warm again.

“You know they all think you’re hustling me outside to have sex, right?” Grantaire asks. “Well, Gav might not think that. I don’t know; what age do kids learn about sex? Anyway, you’re doing my reputation wonders, so thank you.”

“Do you have to talk _all_ the time?” Enjolras asks, archly.

Grantaire tightens his grip on Enjolras and leans in to nuzzle his ear. “Yep,” he says. “You know I do. Do you… You don’t actually mind, right?”

Enjolras turns his head and gets a kiss on the mouth rather than the ear. “You know I don’t.”

***

They ride the metro home together, but don’t talk about plans for afterwards until they’re once again getting off at the same stop.

Enjolras is used to Grantaire taking the leaps and doing the difficult parts, but this time, Grantaire hesitates, glancing up at Enjolras from under his eyelashes and then away again. 

Enjolras isn’t feeling particularly filled with arousal this evening, but he would like Grantaire to come home with him, so he reaches out and touches his hand to Grantaire’s hand.

“Are you… busy? Now?” he asks, in what is probably the least sauve come-on ever.

“So busy,” Grantaire says then grins at him. “Actually, wait, let me check my diary.” He mimes opening a book and flicking through it. “Huh, as luck would have it, I’m free.” His expression dims a little. “But I’ll need to check Jehan doesn’t need me first. Give me five seconds?”

“Need you for what?” Enjolras asks, while Grantaire pulls off his phone and taps out a quick text.

Grantaire shrugs one shoulder. “Nothing really, probably. Moral support? It’s hard for them watching Courf in pain.”

Enjolras rapidly goes from not _particularly_ filled with arousal to none at all. “I imagine it’s pretty hard for Courfeyrac, too.”

“Well yes, duh.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “But Jehan’s going to be up all night with him, feeling helpless, so sometimes they need me for a hug.”

“All night?” Enjolras tries to sound curious rather than horrified, but he knows it doesn’t work.

Grantaire’s phone buzzes before he can answer. He glances down at it, then puts it away in his pocket. “Jehan says they don’t need me, so come on, let’s go to your place.”

Enjolras lets himself be pulled along. Anyone watching them might think they’re hurrying home because they can’t keep their hands off each other, but Enjolras at least is far too distracted to think about sex.

“Why will Courfeyrac be up all night?” he asks, as soon as they’re inside. 

“Ugh, I knew the second that was out of my mouth that it was a mistake.” Grantaire pushes his hand back through his hair, knocking his beanie off and onto the floor, where he leaves it. The blue fabric folds in on itself like a tired puddle, which is exactly how Enjolras often feels and is beginning to feel once more. “Look, I was probably wildly exaggerating. He’ll probably take painkillers and sleep all night long, no problems at all.”

“And if he doesn’t?” They’re standing in the hall, only just out of their coats. Enjolras should probably let them get further inside, offer Grantaire a drink like he’s supposed to, but he feels tied to the spot by his worry-heavy legs.

“Oh god, E, I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. Sometimes he’s in a lot… sometimes he’s in a _certain amount_ of pain and then he can’t sleep, that’s all.”

It’s not that Enjolras couldn’t have guessed this, but Courfeyrac was always active, always moving and bouncing and never still. Enjolras can’t bear to think about it.

“Why wouldn’t he take painkillers?” He really _can’t_ bear to think about it, but some part of him can’t stop poking at his open wounds by asking more and more questions.

“No,” Grantaire says firmly and turns away towards the living room. “That’s something you need to ask him about.”

Enjolras catches his arm. “R,” he says. It comes out pleading. “There’s something you’re not telling me?”

“No,” Grantaire says again, but this time he’s clearly trying to be reassuring. He doesn’t do a great job. “Courf’s just not that big a fan of putting chemicals in his body, that’s all. You know how people get.”

“That’s not true,” Enjolras says. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m telling you that Courf’s business isn’t mine or yours!” Grantaire pulls out of his grip but doesn’t turn away again. “Look, come on, you’re going to want to fuck in a minute, right? You always do when something upsets you. Let’s just get down to it.”

Something about the way he says that sounds resigned. Enjolras doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want sex and he certainly doesn’t want it if Grantaire’s is just humouring him.

“Something happened?” he asks. “With painkillers and…” An absolutely horrific thought occurs to him. “With painkillers and Courfeyrac?”

Grantaire takes one look at his face and goes pale. “Oh, god, not like that! Shit, no, that thing you’re thinking? No.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, okay, look. They put him on OxyContin when he first got out of hospital and I don’t know if you know anything about that?”

Mutely, Enjolras shakes his head. 

“Well, it’s super addictive. It was a struggle for him to get off them, which is why he doesn’t want to take anything like that again, even though he’s got a prescription for nice, safe non-addictive ones now.”

It’s Enjolras’s turn to look away. He only means to take a second, but his brain is pounding in his temples and he feels as if he might choke on all the guilt he’s feeling.

He walks away, no idea where he’s going, just _away_. If he could, he’d walk right out of his own body; he’s the only one he really wants to leave behind, not Grantaire, who hasn’t done anything wrong.

Feeling like a teenager, Enjolras locks himself in his bathroom for a while. He sits on the edge of the bath and tries to breathe and tries not to think.

There’s a quiet knock on the door. “Look, I don’t want to interrupt your private bathroom time, if Musichetta’s stolen food disagreed with you or something, but… are you okay?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, then another one. He makes himself stand up and unlock the door.

Grantaire offers him a small smile. “Oh good, the Corinth didn’t poison you.”

He looks soft and worried, his hair in a mess as if he’s been running his hands through it. Enjolras shouldn’t kiss him, because Enjolras isn’t actually in the mood, but Grantaire was the one who said that they always fucked when something upset him. He’s right. They always do and it always helps and Enjolras just really needs - 

He kisses Grantaire.

“Wait,” Grantaire says immediately. “At some point you’re maybe going to have to talk about something rather than just tumbling me into bed to distract yourself. You know that, right?”

“I know, I know,” Enjolras says against Grantaire’s mouth even though he doesn’t, he doesn’t know that at all. “I know, but will you take me to bed?”

“Do you even want to?” Grantaire asks, but he lets Enjolras kiss him and then he lets Enjolras strip him on the way to the bedroom and that’s really all Enjolras needs.

They crawl up onto the bed together, still exchanging kisses. It isn’t frantic like it has been before, but Enjolras _is_ desperate, just in a different way from usual. He pushes Grantaire down onto his back and climbs on top of him and presses their skin together from chest to toes.

Enjolras is so cold and Grantaire is _so_ warm.

“Hey, hey, shh, come here,” Grantaire says, wrapping his arms around Enjolras and rolling them over so he’s pressing Enjolras down into the bed. “It’s okay, shh, we can just do this, if you want?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I want.” He doesn’t know what he wants. He wants Grantaire to scrape him raw. He wants Grantaire to crack him open and scoop this weeping ache out of his chest. He wants - 

Grantaire takes his hands and pins them down against the pillow above Enjolras’s head.

\- that. Fuck, but he wants that so much.

“ _Yes_ ,” he groans. “Please.”

Grantaire pulls back, staring down at him like he’s looking for an answer to a question that Enjolras doesn’t have. “Fuck, why do I never fucking learn?” Grantaire mutters then lowers his head and licks a stripe up Enjolras’s throat.

It’s almost, so very nearly what Enjolras wants.

He turns his head restlessly, feels Grantaire lick him again and then the careful press of blunt teeth against his throat.

Enjolras arches upward, feels the first real stirring of interest between his legs. “Bite me,” he orders. “Bite me. Please.”

Grantaire closes his teeth very gently against a thick chunk of skin. That isn’t what Enjolras wants. He wants sharp teeth and delicate flesh.

“ _Bite me._ ”

Grantaire doesn’t bite him; Grantaire pulls back again instead. “I’m going to hurt you if I keep going.” He doesn’t look hazy the way he usually does when they’re in bed together. He looks far too alert and far too worried.

Enjolras nods frantically. “ _Yes_ , yes, please, hurt me.”

“Oh my god,” Grantaire groans. “Therapy. You need therapy. Not me, therapy.”

“No.” Enjolras jerks his hands out of Grantaire’s grip and reaches for him, pulling him down and kissing him. “No, I need you.”

Grantaire cups Enjolras’s face in his palms and presses their foreheads together. “If I get you off, do you promise to calm down? You’re scaring me.”

Enjolras doesn’t know why that would be, but he nods anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire says and kisses him again. He reaches down between them and wraps a hand around Enjolras’s cock.

Grantaire’s hand moves quickly, no finesse, but that’s okay, quickly works for Enjolras. Once he’s come, he’ll feel better. He always feels better once Grantaire has made him come.

“Harder,” Enjolras says. “Harder.”

“I can’t go much harder, I’ll pull your dick off.”

“All right,” Enjolras says, stupidly. 

Grantaire laughs unevenly. “I really don’t want to hurt you. Stop asking me to hurt you. Do you know how much I just want to make everything nice for you?”

Enjolras tosses his head on the pillow. “You shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it.” 

“Why?” Grantaire asks. “Because four years ago you made a mistake?”

Enjolras makes a noise, can’t quite articular a _yes_.

Grantaire tightens his grip. “You don’t deserve anything nice, just because you ran away?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras gasps, something in him unclenching because Grantaire _gets it_.

Grantaire knees Enjolras’s thighs apart, crawling between them until Enjolras is spread wide. Lights spark behind Enjolras’s eyes. “Because it’s your fault Courfeyrac got hurt? Because you left him?”

Tears leak from Enjolras’s eyes. “ _Yes_.”

With a harsh groan, Grantaire surges down and kisses Enjolras hard. “Stupid,” he mutters into Enjolras’s mouth. “You’re so stupid, you have no idea.” He fists him harder and harder, jerking him off ruthlessly, until Enjolras comes, a sharp sound dragged from the back of his throat.

It isn’t a good orgasm; it’s barely any real orgasm, but it is a release and it makes Enjolras shake all the same.

Grantaire sits back immediately, cursing under his breath and pulls Enjolras up and into his arms. “Enjolras,” he says urgently. “Enjolras it’s okay, it’s okay, I’m sorry.”

Enjolras clings to him. He feels weak and exhausted and he can only just bite back a handful of shameful sobs. “Thank you,” he whispers, biting distractedly at Grantaire’s shoulder, just to keep him close.

He reaches down toward Grantaire’s lap, conscious that they’ve stopped half way through. Grantaire grabs his hand, before Enjolras can do more than brush fingers against his penis. He’s soft against his thigh as if he’s never been hard at all.

“I’m good, don’t worry about it.”

Enjolras pulls back. “Are you all right?”

Grantaire’s cheeks are flushed, his hair in disarray. He laughs. “Am _I_? Babe, are _you_?” When Enjolras doesn’t know how to answer, he sighs. “Saying that shit to you did not get me off, okay? That's all.” He shrugs.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says again. Embarrassment washes through him until his cheeks feel as if they’re burning but the rest of him is freezing cold. He shivers but forces himself upright and out of Grantaire’s arms.

He made Grantaire participate in sex that didn’t turn him on. He can’t bask in an afterglow that neither of them are really feeling.

“Hey,” Grantaire says and reels him back in. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Enjolras lies. He doesn’t feel better the way he was hoping to. He wishes he could start again and let Grantaire kiss him and coddle him the way Grantaire had apparently wanted to. Maybe _that_ would have helped more.

“I’m staying tonight,” Grantaire says, while Enjolras is still firmly stuck in his own head.

“You don't need to,” Enjolras says automatically.

Grantaire ignores him, concentrating on pulling the duvet down and coaxing Enjolras underneath it. Once Enjolras is lying down, Grantaire rolls onto his stomach and looks at him seriously. “I said shitty things to you, I don't want to leave you alone.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I needed you to.”

With a groan, Grantaire lays his face down into the sheets. “I know,” he says, muffled. “Fuck. I know that but.” He lifts his head, looking lost. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, I was just trying to help.”

Enjolras reaches out tentatively and smoothes Grantaire’s left eyebrow back into place for him. “You did, you do.”

Grantaire looks as if he wants to smother himself in the sheet again. “I made you cry!”

Enjolras doesn’t want to think about that, still far too embarrassed. “I asked you to,” he says again.

“Yeah, well.” Grantaire dismisses that with a wave of his hand. “You have no idea what’s good for you, and apparently neither do I. Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gone along with that.”

It occurs to Enjolas then that maybe Grantaire doesn’t only want to stay the night for Enjolras’s benefit. He looks at least as shaken as Enjolras feels.

“I’m sorry I asked you to,” Enjolras says and holds out his arms questioningly. He wouldn’t be surprised if Grantaire ignored him, so he’s relieved and grateful when Grantaire melts into him instead.

Enjolras presses his face into Grantaire’s hair. “I won’t ask you to do it again,” he promises.

Grantaire looks up and him, closing the gap and pressing their mouths together. “I don’t mind a bit of negotiated kink, but… not like that again. Okay?”

“Okay.” Enjolras is finally starting to unwind a little. He knows it’s not the sex that did it; it might just be a the weight and press and smell of Grantaire in his arms. “Earlier, when you asked if I wanted to just lie down with you?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire presses his face into Enjolras’s chest. “Stupid of me, I know.”

“No, no.” Enjolras strokes his back. “That _was_ what I wanted; that was all I wanted, I just didn’t know.”

Grantaire lifts his head again, a little frown between his eyes. “Huh,” he says and slowly starts to smile. “Guess I’m a bit good at this, after all.”

Enjolras slides his fingers into Grantaire’s curls and strokes his scalp until he sighs and puts his head back on Enjolras’s chest. “When you said you’d stay?”

“Yeah?” Grantaire mumbles. “Want me to?”

Enjolras doesn’t know if he’ll sleep. He doesn’t feel as if he knows anything at all right now, except that he’s a mess and he can’t actually keep going on like this. 

Asking Grantaire to stay is different from accidentally falling asleep together or from Enjolras staying overnight at Grantaire’s because Grantaire didn’t want to be alone.

Maybe it’s time to be brave. Maybe it’s time to admit to needing something. “Yes,” he says and feels Grantaire’s smile all the way down to his bones.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: mild violence | Enjolras experiences a panic attack.

Enjolras doesn’t sleep well. He’s woken half-a-dozen times by his own nightmares and at least twice by Grantaire’s.

Sometime around dawn, Grantaire yells out, “No, don’t!” and kicks out. His foot catches Enjolras hard in the knee and Enjolras gives up on any pretense of sleep.

“Sorry, sorry,” Grantaire mutters sleepily, patting clumsily at Enjolras’s side. His face is half-buried in the pillow and he squints up at Enjolras from under a tangle of dark hair. “Hurt you?”

“No, it’s fine.” Enjolras shakes out his leg, wincing at what’s almost certainly going to be an impressive bruise. “Are you all right?”

“Mm.” Grantaire blinks heavily. “Dreamed I was being chased. Hate that.” He rolls closer, pressing himself against Enjolras’s chest.

It’s too early in the morning to wonder whether Grantaire knows what he’s doing, so Enjolras just puts both arms around him and rests his face in Grantaire’s hair. He wants to say something reassuring, but by the time he’s thought of something, Grantaire’s is breathing deeply, asleep again.

“I won’t let anyone chase you,” Enjolras promises anyway. 

Grantaire is warm and solid in his arms and it’s comforting enough that Enjolras is able to drift somewhere closer to sleep than he would have expected. His mind seems to want to replay everything that happened yesterday, so he lets it. 

He’s more asleep than awake when he hears, “Why did it have to be Courf?” replay through his head in crystal clear clarity in Joly’s voice.

Enjolras’s eyes snap open. It’s a good question. When Enjolras heard Joly say it at dinner last night, he’d thought it was rhetorical, but now he’s wondering if there’s an actual answer just waiting to be found.

Why _did_ it have to be Courfeyrac who was targeted? Either it’s a very cruel coincidence or an even crueler attempt to hit the ABC exactly where they’re most vulnerable. 

Assuming it was Patron-Minette who targeted the protest yesterday, which it almost certainly was, how would that have known that Courfeyrac was the member of the ABC who had been shot before? When Cosette researched it, she said that the names of everyone involved had been hidden from the press. Unless - 

_Fuck_ , Enjolras thinks, staring up at the ceiling. What if Cosette had kept digging? What if she’d found out? What if she’d told the partners?

Enjolras wants to jump out of bed right now, storm into work and demand to know if Cosette _had_ done that. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it was her. It’s her job to uncover information that will help the partners, but Enjolras still can’t believe that she would have been involved in anything so underhand.

Except. 

Except she was at his computer last weekend, wasn’t she? 

What if it wasn’t just Courfeyrac’s name that she found, but also Enjolras’s?

Carefully, Enjolras slides out from underneath Grantaire and settles him back down onto the bed. He’s half-way out of bed, when he feels Grantaire’s fingers against his spine.

“S’early?” Grantaire asks. “Come back to bed.”

“I’ve got a meeting,” Enjolras lies. He knows he’ll be at work long before Cosette if he goes in now, but he feels as if he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, if he waits any longer.

Grantaire strokes Enjolras’s back, a casual touch that feels almost incidental. “Okay? You’re shaking.”

Enjolras is about to stand up and brush it off as feeling cold in the chilly morning air, but he’s tired of doing everything alone. “I’m angry,” he admits.

Grantaire pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking abruptly more awake. “With me?”

Enjolras frowns, twisting around toward him. “Why on earth - ?” he starts, before remembering the terrible way he begged Grantaire to treat him in bed last night. “God. R. _No_. You should be angry with me about that, not the other way around.”

Grantaire brushes that off without really acknowledging it. “What are you angry about, then?”

Enjolras pulls his legs back up onto the bed and folds his arms around them. Grantaire is right, he _is_ shaking. His body has been reacting in ways he doesn’t understand for years now, but at least he can explain this one; if Cosette knew what Patron-Minette were planning and abetted them then Enjolras thinks he might be heartbroken.

“I’m worried that it wasn’t a coincidence that Courfeyrac was targeted,” Enjolras says. “A... colleague of mine has been investigating us, you. I’m worried she might have told them who to aim for.”

Grantaire pushes his hair back out of his face, muffling a yawn behind his wrist. “Would that be so shocking?” he asks. “You work with shitty people.”

Enjolras knows that. He knows that much better than Grantaire does. But in the same way he’s always convinced himself that he’s not _really_ one of them, he’s let himself think the same about Cosette and Marius.

“This colleague?” Grantaire prompts gently, when Enjolras can’t think of anything to say. 

“A friend,” Enjolras admits. “I thought she was a friend.”

To his surprise, Grantaire hugs him quick and tight. “Maybe she still is,” Grantaire says in his ear. “Go and find out, if you need to, but be careful, yeah?”

Enjolras disentangles himself and stands up. “Of course,” he says. “Don’t worry; I won’t give her any information she doesn’t already have.”

Grantaire blinks at him for one, two, three seconds then flops back onto the bed with a groan. “Oh my god, I meant be careful _with yourself_.”

“Oh,” Enjolras manages then can’t think of anything else to say. He takes himself off to shower instead, because it seems much easier.

***

Enjolras is waiting in his office chair when Cosette arrives at work and sneaks in to steal his coffee, like she always does.

“Good morning,” he says to her, and feels a little guilty when she jumps and squeaks. Only a little guilty though, because he’s still anticipating being very angry.

“Gosh,” she says, laughing and pressing a hand to her chest. “Are you cosplaying Blofeld? Where’s your cat?”

“Shut the door,” Enjolras says. “Pull up a chair.”

“Okay,” Cosette says slowly. She does as he asks, stopping on her way to pour herself some coffee. “Is everything all right?” she asks, once she’s sitting at the other side of Enjolras’s desk.

Enjolras slides his chair sideways so he’s not having to look at her over the top of his computer monitor.

“Do you know what happened yesterday?” he asks her. 

Cosette cocks her head and smiles guilelessly. “Not really? I spent the day watching Netflix. I know France lost quite badly at rugby, but you’re not upset about that, are you? I didn’t know you were into sport.”

“With the protest,” Enjolras interrupts. “The ABC organised another protest and someone - I’m guessing us - shot at them with a paint gun.”

Cosette frowns at him. “Oh,” she says eventually. “Can I ask how you know that?”

“No,” Enjolras says. “Can I ask whether _you_ knew about that?”

There’s a pause before Cosette answers. It’s barely noticeable but Enjolras is looking for it and he takes it as his answer even before she opens her mouth to lie again. “How could I? Enjolras, it sounds as if you’re accusing me of something, but I can’t work out what that could be.”

She looks at him levelly, meeting his eyes across the desk.

“You were investigating the ABC,” Enjolras says. “You told me one of them got shot. Did you find out who it was and then pass that on to the partners? Or directly to Thenardier?”

“If I had, wouldn’t that be my job?” Cosette asks, still with that tiny frown wrinkling her neat little nose. Enjolras couldn’t say why, but he’s suspecting more and more that her delicate, wide-eyed prettiness is somehow a deliberate act.

Enjolras spreads his hands, helpless to explain why he’d expect better of her than doing her job. They’re none of them better than the awful jobs they do.

“It’s our jobs to win this fight and get the development built, but I don’t think it’s our jobs to be cruel and vicious to people who are standing up for what they believe in.”

Cosette smiles at him very, very slightly, just the corner of her mouth involved. It looks like the truest expression he’s ever seen her wear. “So it wasn’t you then?” she asks.

“Pardon?”

“You’re not the leak.”

Enjolras frowns at her now, though he’s sure he doesn’t do it as prettily as she does. “Now _I_ don’t understand.”

Cosette wraps her hands around her coffee mug and stares down into it for long enough that Enjolras starts to think he’s lost her. When he opens his mouth to speak, Cosette says, “Shh,” sharply and carries on her contemplation.

Eventually, she looks up at him. “All right, yes,” she says and Enjolras’s heart sinks. “I know the name of the man who was shot four years ago and I know the name of the man who ran the ABC back then.”

Enjolras had been opening his mouth. He closes it again.

She holds up a hand before he can begin to formulate a response, or a question, or a lie. “I haven’t told anyone either of those things, though, and I don’t intend to. When I first realised you were involved, I assumed you were a corporate spy, except that you’ve worked here much longer than the ABC have been interested in Patron-Minette. Then I wondered if you were spying _on_ the ABC rather than _for_ them, except that I haven’t been able to catch you at that, either. So here we are.” 

“If I were spying on the ABC, wouldn’t that be to your benefit?” Enjolras asks, the easiest thing to focus on.

“Like you, I don’t like to be cruel or vicious. Also like you, I suspect, I believe the ABC are in the right.”

They watch each other carefully. Enjolras thinks she’s telling the truth. “It wasn’t you,” he says, barely a question at all.

Cosette smiles. “And it wasn’t you. That’s good.” She taps her fingers on the desk as if coming to a decision. “Besides, you’re overlooking something.” 

“I am?” Enjolras asks. He almost certainly is. Now that the adrenaline that got him out of bed is starting to pass, he’s exhausted again. 

“Even if I had told Patron-Minette that Monsieur de Courfeyrac would make the best target, which I didn’t, but even if I had, _I_ didn’t know there was a protest yesterday, so how did they find out about that?”

Enjolras stares at her. Then he very slowly covers his face with one hand. “I’m an idiot,” he groans. “That didn’t occur to me.”

The only people who knew the time and place of the protest were him and the people who had been at the meeting. He’d been so busy thinking about _who_ had attacked them that he hadn’t stopped to wonder _how_.

“No,” Cosette says cheerfully. “You’re just not a very good conspiracy theorist. Now, I should get back to work before anyone wonders what we’re doing in here.” She stands up and returns to the visitor’s chair to its usual place. She stops by the door and looks back at him. “Be careful, please. There’s not a lot I can do for you, if the partners find out who you were. Or is it who you still are?”

For some reason, Enjolras feels a laugh bubble up in his chest at that. “I have no idea,” he admits.

Cosette’s expression turns fond. “Let me know, if you work it out,” she says. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” Enjolras says automatically. He wants to say more, but she’s already left. 

Alone, Enjolras isn’t entirely sure what just happened. He believes Cosette, but he still feels as though he’s missing something. More importantly though, how _did_ Patron-Minette know where the ABC were going to be yesterday?

He warned Grantaire that there might be a plant amongst the newest members and they’d identified Montparnasse, the shifty man in the hat. What if Enjolras had been wrong about who the spy was. What if - 

Enjolras’s desk phone rings. He answers it automatically, not really paying attention until he hears Grantaire say, “You’re not answering your phone!”

“Yes, I am?” Enjolras says, bemused. “Hello. How did you get this number?”

“From Courf,” Grantaire says, “and I meant you’re not answering your private phone. Have you talked to your friend yet?”

Enjolras sighs heavily. “Yes. It wasn’t her.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to reach you to tell you,” Grantaire says, impatiently. “It’s Eponine. She called me to tell me this morning and I sent her to Combeferre and now I’m not sure what’s happening, but I wanted to try to stop you accusing the innocent.”

Enjolras finds that he’s on his feet. “She’s with Combeferre?”

“I literally just said I don’t know!” Grantaire grumbles. “But yeah, probably. Why? What are you going to do?” 

“Thanks for letting me know,” Enjolras says and hangs up on Grantaire’s next question.

He locks his computer, shrugs on his coat, and grabs up his keys and phone, hurrying out of the office at the same time that most other people are just arriving.

“Good morning!” Marius says, just managing to dodge before they walk into each other. “I was just coming to see you.”

Enjolras forces himself to stop even though all he wants to do is break into a run. “You were?”

Marius rubs the back of his head sheepishly. He isn’t wearing his coat; he must have arrived a while ago. “You and Cosette were in your office together for a long time. You’re still gay, right?”

“Gayer than ever,” Enjolras promises. “Look, I have to duck out for a while. Will you cover for me?”

“Yes, of course,” Marius says immediately. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” Enjolras lies. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“What are friends for?” Marius asks. “Will you tell me what’s going on at some point, though?”

“Not if I can possibly avoid it,” Enjolras tells him. Then, when Marius’s face falls. “It’s better that you don’t know, that’s all.” He pats Marius quickly on the arm, decides that that’s enough lollygagging and heads out onto the street.

Combeferre answers his phone on the seventh ring, just before Enjolras is expecting it to go to voicemail. “This really isn’t a good time.”

“I know,” Enjolras interrupts, already flagging down a taxi. “Just text me your address.”

“It’s the same building as ever, but I’ve moved to number 8,” Combeferre says. “But why?”

Enjolras had been in the middle of stepping into a taxi. Now he more or less falls. “What?”

“I live across the hall from our old place,” Combeferre repeats. “Enjolras, is everything - ” Enjolras hangs up on him too. 

“Where do you want to go?” the taxi driver asks for what sounds like it isn’t the first time. 

Automatically, Enjolras rattles off his old address, where Combeferre apparently _still lives_ and spends the rest of the journey refusing to look out of the window. The absolute last thing that Enjolras needs right now is to see his old neighbourhood and trigger any well-buried feelings.

The apartment that Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac used to share is close to Montmatre, much closer than Enjolras now lives, even though it’s his favourite part of the city. The energy catches under his skin, burrows under his fingernails, when he steps out of the taxi.

Students buzz back and forth along the pavements, chatting happily and yelling at each other in the friendly way that Enjolras had almost forgotten. 

He used to be that young. In fact, he’s not really much older than that, even now. But he feels ancient.

One of the students breaks off from their group with a cheery wave and bounds up the steps to Combeferre’s building. Enjolras follows them, catching the door before it can close and letting himself inside.

If he’d been asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say what this building used to smell like, but the second he steps inside, the familiar scent of spices and bleach and baking hits him like a slap.

He and Combeferre and Courfeyrac moved into apartment number six as soon as they were all eighteen, settling in over the summer before classes had even started at the university. 

He’d loved it here. He’d loved living with the people he loved most, in the part of the city he loved most. He’d loved the freedom, the adventure, learning to cook and clean and all the things his parents had employed other people to do.

He’d loved his room with its view out over the Artists’ Square, and the huge, sunken sofa, where the three of them had spent most evenings. He’d even loved the solid banisters that lined the staircase, he realised now, stopping to run his palm over the smooth, dark wood.

“Honestly, this isn’t the best time,” Combeferre says, when he opens the door to Enjolras’s knock.

He truly does live opposite their old apartment. Enjolras is careful not to look at their old front door.

“Is Eponine here?” Enjolras asks. “Has she spoken to you?”

Combeferre looks briefly surprised then sighs. “Grantaire told you? Of course he did.” He steps back and lets Enjolras into the apartment, but puts a careful hand on his elbow, before he can get further than stepping over the threshold. “Do not yell at her, all right? We’re having a civil conversation.”

“She betrayed us… you,” Enjolras protests.

“I did,” Eponine’s low voice says from further down the hall. “You’re right about that.”

Enjolras looks up and finds her leaning against an open doorway. In his old apartment that would have led to the living room, so it probably does here too. Her voice is steady, almost challenging, but even with her hands shoved in her back pockets and her chin up, she looks nervous.

Good.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, as if he can still read him after all these years. He squeezes Enjolras’s elbow tighter. “Let’s all sit down. We’re having tea; would you like some?”

“No,” Enjolras says, incredulous, but if Combeferre can still read him, he can still read Combeferre, and he knows he’s getting tea, whether he wants it or not.

There’s a teapot sitting on a brightly patterned coaster in the middle of Combeferre’s coffee table. He chats idly about the weather, while refilling a cup and handing it to Eponine and then giving a fresh one to Enjolras.

“Now,” he says, sitting down in one arm chair and signally for Enjolras to take the other. Eponine has the sofa. “Eponine, you were saying?”

She blinks at him, her long, narrow fingers going white around the handle of the cup. “I was saying,” she says then trails off, looking at Enjolras.

Enjolras makes a show of sipping his tea and trying to look relaxed. He doesn’t actually want to be threatening, he just wants to understand. 

Eponine nods and straightens her shoulders. “I was saying sorry,” she says firmly. “And I was telling you why, but you probably think it’s bullshit, so I wouldn’t bother with that again.”

“No, I want to know why.” Enjolras leans forward, stops himself, leans back. “Are Patron-Minette paying you, or do you actually believe in their cause?”

“ _Cause_ ,” Eponine scoffs. “Their cause is money, and if they can get it while hurting people, then they’re even happier.” She scratches her wrist. “Nah, that’s not why. I did it because I’m Eponine Thenardier and I was brought up to do what my family says I should do.”

“Thenardier,” Combeferre says. “Not Jondrette, then?”

Eponine shrugs one narrow shoulder. “Sometimes Jondrette. I’m whoever and whatever I need to be. Or I was, I don’t know anymore.”

She’s still rubbing her wrist. When Enjolras looks closer, he can see a dark line of bruises on the blue-pale skin there.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asks, his anger at her rising up and waiting to be aimed at someone else instead.

Eponine puts her hands behind her back, which is as good as a _yes_.

“Eponine,” Combeferre says gently.

She just glares at him.

“Is Monsieur Thenardier your father?” Enjolras asks. “Uncle? Brother?”

“Father,” Eponine says grudgingly. “More’s the pity.”

“I know how intimidating he is,” Enjolras says. “He scares me, and I only work for him.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’m not _scared_ of him, I just hate him. He sent me and Gav and ‘Parnasse into your stupid little meetings and you were smart, you saw through ‘Parnasse straight away, but Dad was smarter. He knew you’d never suspect me, because you’re all good little rich boys who’d fall over yourselves to have a working class girl join you.”

“That’s not entirely fair,” Combeferre says calmly. “We’re not all men.” He catches her eye and smiles. “We are almost all unforgivably rich, though.”

Eponine’s lips twitch as though she might smile. “Stop it,” she snaps. “Don’t be charming.” She spreads her hands. “What do you want to know?”

“Is your brother spying on us too?” Enjolras asks, before Combeferre can say anything. It might not be the most important question, but Gavroche and Jehan camped out together looking for birds the other week and Enjolras doesn’t like to think of shy, private Jehan being spied on.

“No,” Eponine says immediately. “He loves you guys; he thinks you’re really cool.”

“We are,” Combeferre agrees, having apparently decided to ignore her request not to be charming. “Tell us what you want to tell us, then. There must be a reason you came to me today.”

“Yeah, because R told me it was the best way to fix this shit,” Eponine mutters. “He never said I’d be playing good cop, bad cop with his boyfriend and…” She trails off, apparently not finding anything particularly cutting to say about Combeferre. Enjolras decides now isn’t the time to correct her on the ‘boyfriend’ thing.

Combeferre refills everyone’s tea and just waits.

Enjolras reminds himself that Combeferre is much better at handling situations involving diplomacy than he is and bites the inside of his cheek, so he doesn’t break the silence.

“Look,” Eponine says. “They wanted me to come to your meetings, find out what you were up to, and report back, so I did. I also told them other shit that I’d learned, because that’s what I _do_.” She makes a face. “Except I’d told them really early on that you’re all paranoid about Courfeyrac, and I told them about yesterday’s protest, and they put that together and they did what they did and I saw all your faces and it was _shit_. It was just really fucking _shit_.”

There are tears in her eyes. Enjolras doesn’t want to get punched, so he doesn’t mention it.

“That was shit,” Combeferre agrees. “You’re not responsible for other people’s actions, though, only your own.”

“And my actions were shit.”

Combeferre inclines his head. “Agreed. How are you going to fix it?”

It’s exactly the same tone and head tilt that he used to give to Enjolras, when Enjolras screwed up and was being stubborn about atoning. If Eponine is anything like Enjolras, she feels simultaneously two feet tall and intensely comforted, right now.

“I’m going to stop,” Eponine says. “Pretty sure I can’t fix anything I’ve already done, but I’m not going to do anything else to help them.”

Enjolras frowns. “How will they take that? Will they hurt you?”

“They can try.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Combeferre says. “It’s important that you don’t put yourself at risk. You can feed back minor information about us with our blessing, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”

Eponine started to shake her head, before Combeferre had finished speaking. “Nah, I’ve been looking for a reason to get hell out of there, anyway. This is the kick I need. I’ll just… Ugh, look. I fucking hate having to ask for favours, but could one of you take Gav in? Just for a couple of nights, a week tops, while I find a place for us to go.”

“Of course,” says Combeferre. “He can stay here, but where will you live in the meantime?”

Eponine shrugs. “I’ll find somewhere. ‘Parnasse’ll always let me in his bed, if - ”

“No,” Combeferre interrupts. There’s a look on his face that makes Enjolras wonder just _how_ shifty this Montparnasse seemed. “Look, if Gavroche will be staying here anyway, why don’t you stay too?”

“Where?” Eponine asks immediately.

“Here?” Combeferre echoes then apparently reads her meaning. His eyes go wide. “I have a spare room. You and Gavroche would have to share, but that would be the only, uh, the only inconvenience requested of you.”

Enjolras tries not to smile. It’s rare to see Combeferre flustered.

“Hm,” says Eponine. “I’ll think about it.” She throws herself back into the sofa, eyes narrowed as she watches them both. “Yeah, okay, fuck it.”

“That was you thinking about it?” Combeferre asks, sounding as if he’s trying not to laugh.

“I think fast,” says Eponine. She pulls her feet up onto the sofa, winces when her heavy boots touch the cushions and puts them back down on the floor. “Can I go see this room, then?”

“It’s just down the hall,” Combeferre says, pointing. “The first on your left. The bathroom is opposite. I’m sorry, but we’ll need to share that too.”

“Oh no,” she says flatly. “But I’m used to my own wing in the mansion where I live now.”

Enjolras watches as she disappears down the hall, touching everything curiously as she passes, then rounds on Combeferre. “Do you trust her to live here? Just like that?”

Combeferre rolls out his shoulders with a little groan. Enjolras hadn’t noticed that he was tense during that conversation, but it’s easy to see now that he’s relaxed. “Not entirely, but it’ll be easier to keep an eye on her here, and I do believe that her brother is innocent and that her father is violent.”

“Yeah.” Enjolras glances at the clock. He can’t believe that it’s barely ten a.m.; he’s exhausted. “It’s, uh, I was surprised to see you still live here.”

“It’s convenient for the hospital,” Combeferre says, but in a shifty way which implies that’s not all there is to it. 

Enjolras doesn’t push, because you don’t need to push Combeferre; he’ll come to you on his own. 

“And perhaps I allowed myself to be a little nostalgic. Without you and Courfeyrac, there was no need for me to keep a three bedroom apartment for myself, but when this one became available, it was less of a wrench to move across the hall than to move away completely.” He smiles sideways at Enjolras. “Besides, it made Courfeyrac feel better to know that one of us would still be here. He worried that you’d come home and wouldn’t be able to find us; I did try to explain that you were neither a lost puppy or Peter Pan, but you know how he is.”

“Just how _he_ is?” Enjolras asks, so he doesn’t have to look at that too closely and acknowledge the guilt.

Combeferre laughs. “Enjolras, I phoned you every week even though I never got an answer. I’m not saying that Courfeyrac was the only one who felt sentimental; mine just took a different direction.”

Enjolras looks down at his tea cup, scratching his thumbnail against the enamel until a little bit of colour flakes off and he stops. “I’m sorry.”

Combeferre squeezes his arm. “I know.”

There’s a stomp of boots from the hallway and Eponine appears in the doorway, arms folded. Enjolras wonders what’s made her angry this time. He can’t imagine that she’s found anything incriminating in Combeferre’s spare room.

“Look,” she says. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but you’re being, you know, decent and shit, so I’m going to.”

“Tell us what?” Enjolras asks impatiently, when she doesn’t immediately say anything else.

“Give her time,” Combeferre says, which earns him a glare, but does also get Eponine talking again.

“You know Patron-Minette hate you guys, right? Like, they really _hate_ you.”

“I imagine so?” Combeferre says. “Is that what you wanted to tell us?”

“Obviously not,” Eponine says. “They’ve hated you for years now, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t worked that out? It has to do with that protest you organised at Parc de Belleville.”

Enjolras’s body has frozen at the very mention of that protest, so it’s up to Combeferre to answer.

“What about that protest? It isn’t a good memory for any of us.”

“Not for Dad, either. He lost his job.”

“Courfeyrac nearly lost his life,” Combeferre says tightly.

“Yeah, about that.” Eponine falls silent for probably no more than five seconds but it feels like a lifetime to Enjolras’s and his rising tension.

He finds himself on his feet. “ _What_?”

Combeferre doesn’t say anything to rein him in, so he must be feeling tense as well.

“Fuck,” Eponine breathes. “There was trouble at the protest, right? A big fight and the police got spooked and Courf got shot?”

For a second, Enjolras feels as if he’s falling, as if he’ll tip straight forward out of his body and back to that day. It’s Combeferre’s soft, “Yes, that’s right,” that pulls him back.

Eponine twists her fingers together. “Before they went legit, Patron-Minette were basically thugs for hire, and they were hired to disrupt your protest.”

Enjolras wishes he hadn’t stood up, because now he thinks he’s going to need to sit down. “There was a fight at the back of the crowd,” he says. He feels as if he’s sifting through his memories like he’s squinting at the sun, afraid to look too closely in case he bursts into flames.

“Yeah,” says Eponine. “That was Gueulemer, one of Dad’s men. He’s huge and all he has to do is glare to start a fight. So he started a fight, everyone around him took it up, the police reacted and one of them let off a bullet that he wasn’t supposed to.”

Enjolras’s heart is beating so hard it feels as if it might explode, but the rest of him is completely, supremely numb.

“Patron-Minette are the reason Courfeyrac was shot?” he asks. He doesn’t recognise his own voice.

Combeferre puts his hands over his face for a moment, looking genuinely shaken.

Epoinine looks between them. “Yeah,” she says warily.

“All right.” Enjolras nods. “Thank you for telling us.”

He turns and heads for the front door. He’s almost there before Combeferre catches up with him, stepping between Enjolras and the door and demanding, “What are you going to do?”

Enjolras shoves his feet back into his shoes so hard that his skin barks against the leather. The sting is distracting, so he ignores it.

“I’m going to take them down,” he says. “Excuse me.”

“Eponine,” Combeferre says over Enjolras’s shoulder. “Have you told your father about Enjolras?”

Enjolras does pause then, waiting to hear the answer, because that is going to influence how much he can achieve and how easily.

“If I had, they’d have killed him by now,” says Eponine. “So no, they don’t know. Enjolras?”

He hadn’t been planning to look back at her. Now he does. “Yes?”

Her smile is sharp. “Give them hell, yeah?”

Enjolras nods. “Trust me, that’s the plan.”

***

Enjolras’s office door doesn’t have a lock, but he gets around that by wedging a chair under the handle and then dragging one of his filing cabinets in front of it for good measure.

It takes him three tries to shove a memory stick into the port on his desktop, because his hands are shaking too much, but he feels oddly calm as he hits the necessary keys to download every file with the words _Patron-Minette_ or _Thenardier_ onto it.

He’s on his knees, snapping pictures of paper files on his phone, when someone wraps hard on his door.

He ignores it.

The door handle rattles.

He ignores it.

“Enjolras,” Cosette’s voice hisses through the wood. “Let me in.”

He ignores her.

“Enjolras, let me in right now before someone notices me and wonders what the fuck is going on.”

Enjolras has never heard her swear before. He sits up, pushes sweaty hair off his face, and shifts the chair and filing cabinet just enough that she can open the door and slide inside.

He immediately shoves everything back so they’re locked in again.

Cosette stands in the middle of his decimated office, hands on her hips, and shakes her head. “Oh no, absolutely not,” she says. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t ask me, and I won’t tell you,” Enjolras says, kneeling back down to carry on photographing. He has so much evidence of so much illegal activity that he can’t be discerning, too afraid he’ll miss something key.

“Enjolras. No.” Cosette crouches down in front of him, and splays her small hand across the paperwork. “Stop.”

“Cosette.” Enjolras curls his fingers around his phone. He doesn’t want to push her hand away, but he will if it comes to it. “I’m doing this; don’t try to stop me.”

“ _What_ exactly are you doing?” she asks. She glances back over her shoulder, checking the door.

“I’m going to bring Patron-Minette down.” It’s only thought going around and around and around in his head. 

“No, I get that,” Cosette says, “but why _now_? Can’t you wait? Please?”

Enjolras can’t wait; having this to do is the only thing keeping him from exploding into a red mist of anger and guilt. “They’re the reason my best friend was shot,” he tells her. “They’re the reason he walks with a stick now, that I lost everything, my whole _life_ , Cosette.”

She leans forward, expression urgent. “I know. I know and it’s shit and I understand what you’re doing, but you don’t need to. Other people are already working on this; you’re going to mess everything up.”

Enjolras blinks at her. “Other people?”

“Yes. Enjolras, listen to me, you - ”

Someone knocks on the door and they both jump, looking wildly at each other.

“It’s me,” Marius hisses. “Uh, Marius. Marius Pontmercy.”

“Get rid of him,” Enjolras says.

Cosette nods and goes to pull the furniture away from the door. Ten seconds later, she’s back with Marius in tow.

“Um,” says Enjolras, but Marius talks over him in a very un-Marius way.

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” he says, words falling over themselves, “but something’s happening. Everyone’s computers are locking down and security and the partners are going from office to office.”

“Fuck.” Enjolras scrambles up and over to his computer. The screen is flashing with an error message and there’s no way of checking what he’s managed to download and what he hasn’t, but there’s no time to worry about that. He pulls out the memory stick and looks around for somewhere, anywhere to hide it.

“There’s nowhere,” Cosette tells him. “They’ll find it.”

“Give it to me.” Marius holds out his hand, expression turning impatient when Enjolras hesitates. “Enjolras, give it to me.”

“Marius,” Cosette says softly. “That isn’t safe.”

“I can do it,” Marius says firmly. His hand doesn’t waver.

Enjolras drops the memory stick onto Marius’s palm and curls his fingers around it. “Can you get it to the law firm we met with the other day? Jean Valjean’s team? Quickly?”

“Yes,” Marius says immediately. “I’ll find them; I won’t let you down.”

“I know.” Footsteps are pounding down the corridor outside. “Shit, I don’t know how you’re going to get out of here.”

“I do,” Marius says and turns to the window. He fumbles with the lock, getting it open just as someone’s fist pounds on the door.

“Marius - ” Enjolras starts forward. They’re only one storey off the ground but still, that’s one whole storey. He doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt for him, especially not Marius. 

Marius just waves and swings his legs over the sill.

“Don’t worry, I used to escape from my grandfather’s house like this all the time,” he says, before disappearing out of sight.

Cosette runs over, looking down, which Enjolras can’t bear to do. She gives a soft gasp of relief then slams the window shut, straightens the blinds and turns to Enjolras.

“I’m sorry I can’t protect you,” she says, just as the door is shoved open a few inches from the outside.

Enjolras looks toward it and swears. His phone is sitting on the floor, next to piles of paperwork. He should have given that to Marius as well. 

Cosette steps forward, sweeps the phone up and into her back pocket then pulls open the door. “Thank goodness you’re here; I’ve been trying to stop him,” she says breathlessly. 

The first person into the room is Babet, a security guard who appeared around the same time Thenardier started visiting the offices regularly. He’s tall and thin, atypical for security, but there’s a blank death-like stare in his eyes that means Enjolras has always tried to avoid him.

He strides across to Enjolras, who freezes in place. He’s not sure what’s about to happen.

“Enjolras!” Valois, the senior partner, barks from just behind Babet. “What are you doing?”

Enjolras looks from him to Babet and back. He tries not to look at Cosette, because she’s shrunk back against the wall, obviously trying to become invisible.

“Patron-Minette are criminals, sir,” Enjolras says. “I’m not going to stand by anymore.” He feels as if he’s been waiting to say this for years and years, and now it’s as if he’s stepped out of his own body. He can’t believe he’s doing this.

Valois stares at Enjolras like he’s started speaking in tongues. “What’s wrong with you, boy?”

“They’re dangerous; they don’t care about anyone. Do we really want to be on their side, sir? Please. If we all stand against them, we could - ”

Valois turns away from him, rounding on Cosette. “What did he do?”

Cosette hunches her shoulders. “I found him going through the files,” she says, pointing at the papers all over the floor. “I tried to stop him, but what could I do?” She rubs at her arm, eyes wide and tear-filled.

Enjolras doesn’t appreciate the implication that he grabbed her roughly, but he is impressed by her acting ability.

“Thenardier’s on his way,” Baber grunts, glancing at his phone. “Cops too.” He smiles a sharp smile at Enjolras, which makes Enjolras’s skin crawl. “Better hope they get here before he does.”

Enjolras hadn’t been afraid before, not really, but at the mention of the police, his heart shifts unexpectedly and lodges at the base of his throat.

Valois has moved over to Enjolras’s desk and is typing something into the computer, overriding the security block. “Password,” he barks at Enjolras.

Enjolras shakes his head.

“Password, Enjolras,” Valois says again. 

Babet takes a step toward him.

“Please give it to him,” Cosette says tremulously.

Deciding that if Cosette thinks it doesn’t matter then he might as well, Enjolras types in his password, then immediately backs away from Valois.

His back bumps Babet’s chest and he has to work hard not to flinch.

“Did you honestly think we wouldn’t have alerts set up for some idiot trying to download our files?” Valois asks, clicking around on Enjolras’s screen. “Where’s the memory stick?”

“There isn’t one,” Enjolras lies. “I hadn’t got that far.”

“Really?” Valois tips his head like a bird. “So why does it say right here that the disk wasn’t ejected properly?” He glances over his shoulder at Babet. “Get it from him.”

Babet grabs Enjolras’s arm and spins him around without releasing it. Pain shoots down Enjolras’s arm from his shoulder, but he bites his lip and doesn’t make a sound.

“He was transferring it to his phone,” Cosette says quickly and stumbles forward, holding Enjolras’s phone out in front of her, keeping it at arm’s length for Valois to snatch from her.

Enjolras groans internally. It’s a good idea and he appreciates her saving his arm from dislocation, but he _needs_ the information on the phone.

“There, that wasn’t that hard, was it?” Babet kicks Enjolras directly in the back of his right knee and shoves him forward at the same time.

Enjolras hits the floor, only just managing to keep his head from connecting with the corner of the desk.

“What is happening in here?” demands a deep, slightly familiar voice from the doorway.

Enjolras pulls himself to his feet, turning to find Inspector Javert, Thenardier’s pet policeman, standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his barrel chest.

“Ah,” Babet sighs, sounding disappointed. “Cops got here before the boss. That’s a shame.”

Enjolras finds that he can’t take his eyes off Javert. Enjolras isn’t afraid of anyone, he certainly isn’t afraid of the police, except that at this moment, his ears are starting to buzz and his heart - still lodged in his throat - has expanded to block his airways.

He’s vaguely aware that Valois is barking orders at Javert and also that Cosette is frowning at Enjolras in concern, but he doesn’t take anything in until there’s a click, and cold metal closes tightly around Enjolras’s wrists.

He goes away.

_Heavy hands fell on both of his shoulders and roughly jerked him back._

_Enjolras had a brief impression of a dark blue police uniform, then he was pulled to his feet and Courfeyrac’s hands slid out of his._

_Courfeyrac called out Enjolras’s name and Enjolras fought. He twisted and kicked out, not thinking of anything except how badly he needed to get back to Courfeyrac._

_“None of that,” growled a voice in his ear and the next thing he knew he was being cuffed._

_“My friend,” he shouted, still struggling. “Let me get back to my friend. Let me - ”_

He comes back to himself as he’s being marched out of the office. Javert’s hand is firm but not tight on his shoulder and there’s no sign of Valois or Babet.

“Enjolras,” Cosette says softly, urgently, “it’s going to be all right, you just need to be brave.”

Enjolras tries to nod. He can be brave. He’s excellent at being brave. He wishes he could breathe.

“Come on now,” Javert says, oddly gently.

Cosette steps past them, leaving the room first and as she does, her arm brushes Javert’s. Enjolras thinks he sees something small and black slip from her curled fingertips into Javert’s waiting palm, but it happens so fast that he can’t be sure.

“Are you going to make this difficult?” Javert asks Enjolras, propelling him forward.

Enjolras would love to make it difficult, but he’s having trouble just staying in the moment. He shakes his head.

He’s led past rows of curious faces that he can’t focus on and outside to the front of the building, where a dark, unmarked car is waiting.

“Come on, into the back,” says Javert and puts his hand on the top of Enjolras’s head, protecting him as he propels Enjolras inside. 

Last time, the policemen were rougher, last time they shoved him in and he hadn’t been able to catch himself with his cuffed hands. It had taken him half the car ride to get himself upright and facing forwards, and he’d spent the rest of the journey banging on the door with his cuffs, demanding to be taken back.

He’s quiet this time, nothing to say.

He sits in the back of the car until they pull up to the police station and then he still can’t think of a reason to move, just waits until Javert comes around and opens the passenger door.

“Monsieur Enjolras,” Javert says calmly. “Are you all right?”

Enjolras nods mechanically and lets himself be helped out of the car.

It’s been four years, but he still recognises the bright lights and sharp smell of the inside of the station. 

“In here,” says Javert and leads Enjolras into an interview room. He pulls a key out of his pocket and takes off Enjolras’s cuffs. “Sit here, I won’t be long.”

Enjolras sinks down into a hard plastic chair and tries not to put his head down on the wooden table in front of him.

_They left him in the interview room for what felt like hours. There was no clock in the room, but Enjolras was wearing the delicate silver watch that Combeferre and Courfeyrac had clubbed together to buy him for his eighteenth. He slipped his fingertips under the narrow strap and came as close as he’d ever come to praying._

_When the door opened, he tried to jump to his feet, but he was cuffed to the chair and fell back into the seat before he could get anywhere._

_“Water,” said a surly policeman, shoving a plastic cup in Enjolras’s direction._

_“Please,” Enjolras said, trying to sound respectful, like someone who hadn’t shouted and sworn at this man’s colleagues. “Please. Do you have any news on my friend?”_

_The policeman looked at him for a long moment, then he laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh and, if Enjolras had been less terrified, he might not have trusted it._

_“Your friend?” he asked, a slow smile spreading across his face. “He’s dead.”_

_Enjolras’s world stopped turning._

“Do you want water? Coffee?” Javert asks, when he comes back to check on Enjolras.

Enjolras shakes his head.

“It’s not a trap,” Javert says impatiently. “You look like you need it.”

Enjolras shakes his head again.

They’d left him in the interview room for thirty hours last time, and they hadn’t let him go to the bathroom. Around hour twenty-seven, he’d had to soil himself, and he can still remember the feelings of absolute relief and humiliation as urine had trickled down his leg.

Javert sighs, apparently giving up. “Your lawyer is on his way.”

“I haven’t requested a lawyer,” says Enjolras.

“Well, he’s on his way, anyway.”

_Enjolras’s parents were both lawyers, but neither of them came for him. Eventually, Professor Lamarque did and she was steamingly angry._

_Exhausted, Enjolras watched her through bleary eyes as she cut every policeman down to the size and then crouched down by Enjolras’s chair._

_“Are you all right?” Her dark eyes were heavily ringed and her grey hair was messy as if she had been awake all night as well._

_Mutely, Enjolras shook his head._

_“We’re going to destroy every one of these bastards,” she promised him, words clipped. “But first things first, I’m assuming you want to know about Courfeyrac.”_

_Enjolras didn’t. He hadn’t thought about anything all night except for his lovely, bright Courfeyrac, bleeding and dying because Enjolras had been too stubborn to step off the stage._

_“He’s very ill, but he came through surgery and he’s stable now.”_

_Enjolras stared at her._

_“Enjolras,” Lamarque said. “Are you listening to me?”_

“Enjolras.” There’s a gentle hand on the back of Enjolras’s neck, warm fingers against his cold skin. “Are you in there?”

Enjolras looks up and finds Courfeyrac standing over him, a soft, worried look on his face. 

Enjolras frowns. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?” There’s no blood on Courfeyrac’s clothes, which doesn’t make sense. He should be covered in it. He was just shot. Enjolras saw him bleeding.

Courfeyrac looks over Enjolras’s head at Javert. 

“I told you,” Javert says, gruffly.

“You did,” Courfeyrac says. He slides his hand down to Enjolras’s shoulder and squeezes. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you home.”

Enjolras rubs at his forehead, completely confused and not sure why. He can’t seem to get a handle on what’s going on around him. “What’s happening?”

“You did a stupid, brave thing and got slightly arrested for corporate espionage and now we’re going home.”

Arrested. Yes. Enjolras remembers that. Wait. “Marius?”

“Is still the cutest puppy in the entire world,” Courfeyrac assures him. “He’s safe with Valjean and Feuilly and so is your memory stick.”

If Enjolras tries really, really hard he can stay in the present. “There’s more on my phone, but Cosette - ” The pieces click together and he frowns over at Javert. “Did she give you my SD card?” That’s what the tiny piece of black plastic was that she slipped to him; if Enjolras had been more aware at the time, he would have realised straight away.

“She did.” Javert reaches into his pocket and hands it to Courfeyrac. “Don’t let Jean near it; he’ll break it.”

Courfeyrac grins and pockets it. “Don’t worry, Inspector, I know.” He tugs Enjolras up to his feet, makes sure he’s steady, then circles around him to swoop in and deliver one kiss to each of Javert’s cheeks.

Javert looks resigned but not unhappy.

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras admits.

Courfeyrac comes back around to him and holds out his arm for Enjolras’s to take. “I know, don’t worry. I’ll explain everything when we get home.”

He keeps up a slow, steady patter of conversation as they make their slow way out of the police station. He’s leaning heavily on Enjolras’s arm and for once that’s good, because it keeps Enjolras focused on the here-and-now. 

“Let’s sit here, okay?” Courfeyrac says, stopping by a low wall just outside the station. “R is bringing a car around.”

Enjolras nods. He leans forward and puts his head in his hands. He’s so dizzy and nothing feels real.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac asks gently. “Did something happen that I don’t know about?”

“No,” Enjolras manages. “No, nothing, I just, I can’t _breathe_.”

Courfeyrac puts a hand on his back and the other one on his knee. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. You’re fine. Grantaire will be here in a minute and then we’ll go home. Okay? You’re okay.”

Enjolras can’t answer, so he doesn’t, but he does try to quiet his uneven breaths, not wanting to make Courfeyrac sound any more worried than he already does.

It feels like eternity before he hears a car pull up to the curb and Courfeyrac says, “Hey, look, here’s R. You like him.”

Enjolras listens as Courfeyrac and Grantaire have a soft conversation over his head and then Grantaire kneels down in front of him.

“Hey, beautiful,” Grantaire says, when Enjolras focuses his eyes on him. “I know you’re freaking out, but we’ve got to move. The police are going to come and we’re not letting you get arrested again.”

He laughs softly as if it’s a joke, but it gets Enjolras on his feet. He cannot be arrested again. He can’t go back inside that building.

“Wow, that worked,” Grantaire mutters, before pointing Enjolras toward the car. Grantaire walks around to the other side and Courfeyrac gets in the front, and then the car starts forward.

Enjolras doesn’t want to make a scene in a taxi, so he focuses his attention on the knees of his suit and nothing else. The left knee is a little scuffed, probably from when Babet knocked him over. Now that he’s thinking about it, his leg does ache from that.

After a few minutes, Grantaire reaches out and puts his hand into Enjolras’s eyeline, palm turned upwards.

“Only if you want,” he says softly.

Enjolras grabs his hand in both of his and holds onto it for the rest of the journey.

***

“There,” Grantaire says, when the door closes behind them inside Grantaire’s apartment. “This is a much better place to have a breakdown, right?”

Enjolras looks up at him crossly. He wants to say that he most certainly isn’t having a breakdown but his breathing is still too laboured to form words.

Grantaire’s smile fades and falls away. “Oh, Enjolras,” he says.

That’s awful; Enjolras hates it. He doesn’t need sympathy. He wishes that they’d taken him back to his own place and just left him there, so he could pull himself together in peace.

He takes a step back, just needing a little space. His fingers are tingling and his chest aches, the room sloshing sickly around him. The room turns black and he sways on his feet.

“Woah,” Grantaire says and then a strong arm wraps around Enjolras’s waist. “Do me a favour and sit down, yeah?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, but he doesn’t try to push Grantaire away, since Grantaire is once again the only stable thing he can cling to.

“I know, I know you’re fine.” Grantaire guides him down onto the sofa and kneels in front of him. He takes Enjolras’s hands and squeezes. “And I know you don’t have panic attacks, but could you do me a favour and humour me?”

“Hm?” Enjolras asks. He blinks around. “We left the police station, right? I can’t be there. I can’t go back there.”

“We left the police station,” Grantaire says. “You’re never going back there. You’re safe in my house, with me and Courf.” 

Enjolras nods. He knows that. He doesn’t know why he can’t make himself believe it. “Sorry.”

“No, shh. Breathe in for me,” Grantaire says. “Nice deep breath and hold it.”

Enjolras doesn’t know why he needs to do that, but Grantaire seems to think it’s important, so he tries.

“Good, that’s good, now breathe out. Good. Wait a second. Now breathe in, hold it. Good. You’re doing so good. Breathe out.”

Enjolras makes himself focus on Grantaire’s pale blue eyes and all the familiar curves and planes of his face. Doing as he’s told hurts and it keeps on hurting, but gradually something in his chest shifts and eases and the racing of his heart starts to slow. 

It’s not much, but it’s enough that the lights fade from the corners of his vision and eventually he’s able to remember for certain where he is and what year it is.

“There, that’s good,” Grantaire murmurs, lifting Enjolras’s hands to his mouth and kissing his fingers. “Don’t stop yet, keep going for a while, but you’re doing really well.”

By the time Enjolras has total control over himself, he feels as if he’s run a marathon. He curls sideways on the sofa, hiding his face in the arm, so embarrassed and exhausted that he wants to melt deep down inside it where no one will find him.

“Okay now?” Courfeyrac asks gently. 

Enjolras lifts his head just far enough to squint at him, but doesn’t feel up to answering.

Grantaire stands up with a small groan and rubs his thighs. “He’s okay now, aren’t you, E?”

Enjolras nods.

“Cool.” Grantaire sits down on the arm of the sofa, lifting Enjolras’s head and laying it back down against his thigh. 

Enjolras tells himself that he can’t just lie here with his head in Grantaire’s lap; it’s far too indulgent. It helps though and he’s far too afraid of losing control again to give up anything that helps.

“Stop thinking,” Grantaire says, and strokes his hair.

Enjolras closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of Courfeyrac moving around the apartment. He hears a soft, plaintive meow, followed by the rattle of kibble hitting a food bowl.

“Shh, chomp quietly, Uncle Enjolras is sleeping,” Courfeyrac whispers to the cat.

Enjolras hides in Grantaire’s lap for longer than he truly needs to, but eventually embarrassment wins out and he pushes himself upright.

Grantaire doesn’t try to stop him from moving, just sighs at him a little when he does.

Courfeyrac had been typing something on his laptop, but he looks up when Enjolras moves, and puts the laptop down on the floor.

“Hey, there. Do you know what caused that?” he asks. “You don’t have to tell us, but I would like to talk about what happened today and I don’t want to stomp all over your vulnerable places.”

“You’ve never stomped on a vulnerable place in your life,” Enjolras says, while he tries to think of an answer. He doesn’t like to think about any of this. Sometimes his body just rebels against him and then eventually it stops. If he doesn’t think about it too closely, he’s learned he can usually skirt around the worst of it. 

“No, but I have.” Grantaire strokes his fingertips down Enjolras’s spine. It’s very soothing.

Enjolras couldn’t skirt around the worst of it today though, and he’s pretty sure he knows why.

“The police,” he says, since he does want to give them a truthful answer, no matter how embarrassing it might be. “They, uh. Being at the station. It reminded me.”

Courfeyrac nods. “That makes sense. We figured it wouldn’t be good for you to be there too long, didn’t we, R? When Javert called and said he was worried about you, we came as fast as we could.”

“Worried about me?” Enjolras pinches himself but this moment does seem to be real.

“He’s a sweetheart,” Courfeyrac promises. 

“What?” Enjolras asks. “Courf. Don’t. He’s… he works for Thenardier.”

“Nah,” Courfeyrac says, waving that off. “Javert is a teddy bear.”

Enjolras stares at him. “I’m so confused,” he admits. He looks from Courfeyrac to Grantaire. “What am I missing?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “This is Courf’s thing,” he says, so Enjolras turns his attention back there.

“Javert is married to my boss, Monsieur Valjean,” Courfeyrac says, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s our friend, I promise.”

“No,” Enjolras says slowly, although now he thinks about it, he’s never actually seen Javert doing anything illegal; he’s just inferred it.

Courfeyrac nods. “Yes. He was investigating your firm for all its shady dealings, we had some clients come to us about Patron-Minette in particular, and then when Feuilly and I investigated them, we found out about the development, so that got the ABC involved too. Javert told Valjean to stay out of it, Valjean told us to stay out of it, everyone had a big sulk for a while, and then we all decided to work together to bring those bastards down.”

“Javert was never working for Thenardier?” Enjolras asks slowly. “Wait, he’s your boss’s husband who _bakes_? _Javert_ bakes?”

Courfeyrac grins. “I never said it was good baking, just that he does it a lot. And yeah, Javert has spent years getting Thenardier to trust him; do you know how close you came to screwing all that up?”

He doesn’t sound cross, he sounds impressed, but Enjolras still cringes. His big, heroic act feels small and ridiculous now.

“No, hey,” Courfeyrac says, picking up his cane and poking Enjolras in the knee with it. “Do you know how much fucking _golddust_ you stole today? I’ve just got to find a way to make it submissible evidence and then we are going to destroy them, and that’s all because of you.”

“It is?” Enjolras asks hopefully. He feels foolish for needing the reassurance, but it’s been a hell of a day. “Wait, Cosette told me that I was going to get in the way of another investigation; are you working with Cosette, too?”

“Ah.” Courfeyrac looks apologetic. “Not exactly, but also I can’t really answer that? It’s not my secret to tell.”

“Was Javert’s?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Eh, he’s my boss-in-law, I have some discretion there.”

Enjolras smiles. He really does love Courfeyrac so much, and he loves… and Grantaire is important to him too. It’s possible that he owes them more than deflection and denials. 

“When I was arrested,” he says quietly and feels both their attention snap to him. “The first time, at the protest, I mean. The police weren’t… pleasant, then. They, uh, they humiliated me and ignored my rights and - ” He makes himself look at Courfeyrac. “ - and they told me you were dead.”

Courfeyrac startles in his chair, eyes flaring wide. “Excuse me? They did _what_?”

Enjolras shakes his head, taking a minute before he can speak.

Courfeyrac talks over him, anyway. “I knew about the rest. Lamarque told me what they did to you, she got so many people prosecuted for that. In fact, she’s the reason Javert came to Paris; he came to replace the previous inspector, who lost his job because of her. But they told you I was dead?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. His eyes sting and he blinks hard.

Grantaire is looking at him closely. “How long until you knew that wasn’t true?”

“About a day and a half.” Enjolras takes a deep, unsteady breath. He isn’t panicking this time, just upset.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, tucking a few stray curls behind Enjolras’s ear. “Is it time?”

“Time?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire smiles at him. “For that talk you guys need to have.”

“Oh, R, no, not if Enjolras isn’t feeling up to it,” Courfeyrac protests, but his expression is hopeful and Enjolras knows he’s put this off far, far long enough.

“Maybe it is time?” he asks Grantaire.

Grantaire leans in and presses a slow, warm kiss to Enjolras’s cheek. “It’s time,” he says. He pats Enjolras encouragingly on the back. “Off you go, I’ll be right here, if you need me.”

Enjolras looks at him for a moment, then he grabs Grantaire’s face in both hands and kisses him hard on the mouth. When he lets go, Grantaire is pink and flustered.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says sincerely.

Courfeyrac looks delighted, but all he does is push himself up to his feet and nod his head in the direction of the bedrooms. 

“Hey,” he says. “Won’t you please step into my parlour?” 

Courfeyrac’s parlour turns out to double as his bedroom. He sits down on the bed, scooting back so he’s leaning against the headboard. He watches Enjolras curiously, strangely quiet, which doesn’t help, since Enjolras has no idea where to start.

Rather than talking, Enjolras paces. He makes it to the window and back four times, before Courfeyrac says, “You’re going to wear a hole in my carpet.”

Enjolras stops at the window, fingers curled around the sill. 

“I’ve always wanted to say that,” Courfeyrac says. “I think I sounded like my grandma; don’t you?”

Enjolras smiles but doesn’t answer.

“Hey, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says softly. “I’m not that ugly, am I? I’m pretty sure you can look at me without turning to stone.”

Enjolras manages the ghost of a laugh and forces himself to turn around. “You’re not ugly,” he says. “You know that.”

“I do,” says Courfeyrac smugly. He pats the space next to himself on the bed. “Sit down with me?”

Enjolras sits down with him. He pulls his feet up onto bed and presses his bare toes into the duvet cover. 

“So,” Courfeyrac says. “They told you I was dead, huh?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras manages.

“That must have sucked.”

Enjolras laughs shakily, a little stunned when it tries to shift into a sob. He doesn’t cry, not ever. “Yes.”

Courfeyrac leans his shoulder against Enjolras’s. “Not to brag, but I'm not dead.”

Enjolras turns to look at him, raising his eyebrows. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Courfeyrac asks doubtfully. “Because the way you've been avoiding getting close to me makes me think maybe you don't all the way believe I'm here.”

“No, that’s not it.” Enjolras taps his fingers on his knees, trying to work out what it _is_ , then, if not that. He’s promised to talk, but it’s hard. “I've avoided you because I'm ashamed.” 

Courfeyrac makes a questioning noise.

This part, at least, is easy. Enjolras is very aware of why he should be ashamed. “I let you get hurt then I left you.”

“Uh excuse you!” Courfeyrac manages to sound actually offended. “I knew the risks, remember. It was _our_ protest, not just yours.”

“No, but.” Enjolras takes a breath. His chest still aches, although less desperately than before. “No, but I _left_ you.” He sniffs hard and looks away.

“Oh, hey,” Courfeyrac murmurs and puts an arm around his back. “No, no, shh, it’s okay.”

“You’re my best friend,” Enjolras says. He stops, sniffs, tries again. “I’m sorry.”

Courfeyrac presses his face up against Enjolras’s, cheek to cheek. “That’s nothing to cry about,” he says gently. “You’re mine too.”

“I’m not crying,” Enjolras lies. “Please will you, please will you stop reassuring me and just listen to me apologise?”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“I’m scared,” Enjolras finally manages. “That’s the other reason I was avoiding you.”

Courfeyrac pulls back just far enough to look at him. He looks as if he’s as close to crying as Enjolras is. 

“Scared of what?”

Enjolras rubs at his running nose. “Losing you and Combeferre and the others was the worst time of my life, I don’t think I could go through that again.”

“You’re not going to go through that again.” Courfeyrac grabs his hand tight. “You’re not going to lose us again, I promise. But E, you’ve got to promise the same thing. Losing you hurt us too. It hurt _me_.”

Enjolras nods helplessly. “I promise.”

Courfeyrac blinks hard and sniffles.

Enjolras tries not to copy him and fails. A few tears roll down his cheek. He turns without thinking about it and finds himself wrapped up in Courfeyrac’s arms.

Crying is appalling - he feels over-hot and out of control and miserable and he knows he’s soaking Courfeyrac’s neck and shirt collar, which is horrendously embarrassing - but he can’t stop.

He curls his fingers in the front of Courfeyrac’s shirt and Courfeyrac clutches at his back and they both cry until relief overwhelms them and first Courfeyrac and then Enjolras start to laugh.

“Oh my god, we’re disasters,” Courfeyrac says breathlessly. He pulls an actual fabric handkerchief out of his shirt pocket. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Enjolras mops at his face, then hands it back. 

“Gross,” Courfeyrac says, but dries his face off with it too. He pulls Enjolras back into a hug, planting a huge kiss on his cheek before pulling back to beam at him. “Ah, I’ve missed you!”

Enjolras smiles back at him, helplessly pleased. “I think it’s obvious I’ve missed you too.”

“Oh yeah, totally obvious,” Courfeyrac says with a roll of his eyes. His smile turns mischievous. “Hey, wanna stay here and hide with me for a while?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras. “Please.” 

Courfeyrac leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes. After a moment, he starts to smirk. “So. You and Grantaire, huh?”

Enjolras laughs a disgustingly nasal laugh, still all blocked up from crying. “I’ve changed my mind; I don’t want to hide here with you at all.”

“Aw.” Courfeyrac reaches up without looking at him and pulls him down so he’s lying on his side beside him. “Come on, I want gossip.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Enjolras protests, but Courfeyrac pouts at him and Enjolras finds himself telling him anything anyway. He feels gritty and rung out, but he’s missed this. Gossiping with Courfeyrac warms something inside him that’s been cold for a very long time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: discussions of mental health; tattooing.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac stay in Courfeyrac's room until they hear Jehan come home and Courfeyrac starts to look wistful. 

Enjolras knows that it’s clear that they’ve both been crying and he braces himself for the embarrassment of Jehan or Grantaire mentioning it, but neither of them do. Jehan just looks them over with a soft fondness on their face and gives them both a smile.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows at Enjolras. “All right?” he mouths.

Enjolras doesn’t know so he can’t answer, but apparently his expression says it all, because Grantaire stands up and drifts over to him.

Courfeyrac immediately takes his place on the sofa, curling up next to Jehan and sliding under their waiting arm. He tries to push his hands under the oversized, yellow jumper they’re wearing then makes an indignant noise. “What are all these layers? Are you trying to hide my Jehan from me?”

Enjolras watches as Jehan pulls up their jumper for Courfeyrac to slide both hands under, and Courfeyrac burrows close, pressing his forehead to Jehan’s shoulder and sighing the sigh of someone who is right where he belongs.

Instinctively, Enjolras turns to Grantaire.

“Want a bit more quiet?” Grantaire asks him.

A moment ago, Enjolras thought he was ready to rejoin the world, but now he’s not so sure. “Maybe yes,” he admits.

Grantaire loops his fingers casually around Enjolras’s wrist and tugs him down the hallway. “My room’s free. I can run interference for you… Unless you want company? Do you?”

There’s something hesitant about it, which Enjolras puts down to the embarrassing display he made of himself earlier. Usually, Grantaire is perfectly happy to tell him what he wants.

“I’d like company,” Enjolras says firmly. “Definitely.”

Grantaire smiles, his face lit up by the sunlight streaming into the hall. “Want _my_ company?” he asks, but he’s already stepping into the room as he asks it.

“Definitely,” Enjolras repeats. 

He’s exhausted, absolutely washed out by the events of the day, so he doesn’t pause to worry about the etiquette of coopting Grantaire’s bed, just lies down on the top of the duvet and presses his face into the pillow.

He’s slept here often enough by now that the pillowcase smells familiar, soothing.

After a moment, he rouses himself enough to scoot across the bed, making room, only then realising that he was expecting Grantaire to join him but that Grantaire might not have meant that sort of company, at all.

Grantaire does sit down, however, pulling his legs up in front of him and folding his arms on his knees. “All right?” he asks.

“May I lie?” Enjolras asks, after thinking about all potential answers.

Grantaire laughs as though that was actually funny and twists around to face Enjolras. “You can if you want,” he says, “but it’ll make the whole conversation sort of pointless.”

It’s a good point, so Enjolras has to acknowledge it. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. Like the pillowcases, it’s familiar by now, but he’s usually engaged in much more pleasant activities when it’s in his eyeline.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that perhaps I do have panic attacks.”

He doesn’t look at Grantaire until Grantaire says, “Huh. No shit?” 

Enjolras turns to glare at him, relieved beyond measure that Grantaire doesn’t look worried or sympathetic; Enjolras doesn’t think he could have stood that. Grantaire does look serious, but there’s still a bit of a smirk around the corner of his mouth.

“You can say you told me so,” Enjolras sighs.

“No, that’d be taking smug shittiness a bit far.” Grantaire reaches out a hand then hesitates. “Do you mind if I touch you?”

“I never mind if you touch me,” Enjolras admits, because it’s true. He’s surprised by how surprised Grantaire looks; he hadn’t realised he was being subtle.

“Some people don’t like to be touched after a panic attack,” Grantaire says. “Joly can’t stand it; Jehan needs it. Everyone’s different.”

He strokes his fingers through Enjolras’s hair, finger combing through some tangles. Enjolras would tell him to stop; combing his curls only turns them into a frizzy mess, but it feels nice so he just leans into it.

“Yours was pretty bad, huh?” Grantaire asks, voice still level, fingers still gentle. “You didn’t know where you were.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, embarrassed. “I knew where I was,” he argues. “Just not, well, just not _when_ I was.”

“That happen often?”

“Not as often as it used to.” Not since Enjolras learned how to shut a door on his feelings and on his memories. Now that he’s reopened that door, he’s a little afraid of what might happen.

“Well that makes me feel… not better in any way at all.” Grantaire’s voice is firm but his touch is still gentle. “You know I’m going to make you talk about this more, right?”

Enjolras blinks his eyes open. “No, thank you,” he says, without much hope.

Grantaire rolls his eyes at him, smiling in a way that Enjolras is beginning to realise means that he thinks Enjolras is very stupid but is still fond of him. Enjolras doesn’t know how to react to a smile like that, so he doesn’t.

“Not right now,” he allows. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Honestly, Enjolras feels that way too. He isn’t so much tired as incredibly ready to switch off for a while. So much has happened and he needs a chance to reset.

“Is that all right?” he asks. “I realise I’m taking over your bed.”

“How shockingly capitalistic of you,” Grantaire says. “Stealing a poor, hardworking man’s bed, just because you want it.”

Enjolras pushes up onto his elbows, glaring. “Take that back.”

Grantaire beams at him. “No,” he says and pulls Enjolras up and into his arms.

“Mph,” Enjolras huffs, finding himself sprawled across Grantaire’s broad, well-muscled chest. It isn’t a bad place to be; he just feels as if he should object to the manhandling.

“Shh,” Grantaire says. “Stop hissing like an overtired kitten and go the fuck to sleep.” He resumes stroking Enjolras’s hair and it is… well, it is very pleasant, and Enjolras is very worn down.

“It’s the middle of the day,” Enjolras protests half-heartedly.

“It’s early evening. The perfect time for a nap.” Grantaire shifts, lying down deeper in his pillows, his chest still providing the perfect place for Enjolras to lay his head.

Enjolras doesn’t remember the last time he curled up against someone with the deliberate intention of falling asleep. It makes his already-jumpy body feel extra jittery, or it does until Grantaire sighs and lays a hand on Enjolras’s stomach.

That makes Enjolras jump for an entirely different reason.

“I, uh, I’m not sure if - ”

Grantaire snatches his hand away. “I wasn’t hitting on you,” he says, sounding uncertain for the first time today. “I just thought, well, I was trying to soothe you.”

“Oh.” Feeling foolish, Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand and lays it back on his stomach. After a moment’s thought, he presses it against the place that’s always knotted tight and aching with worry.

They lie quietly, Enjolras relishing the warmth of Grantaire’s hand and trying not to think. That part proves harder than he was hoping.

“Will you talk to me?”

“Always,” Grantaire says. “You know me, never shut up. Want me to tell you more tattooing stories? That worked last time, didn’t it?”

“Thank you.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire says and starts to talk. It takes a while, but eventually the low cadence of his voice and the comfort of his presence works on Enjolras once again. He drifts into sleep and, for once in his life, doesn’t dream.

***

Enjolras wakes because the bed is moving under him.

“Sorry, gotta pee, I’ll be back.” Grantaire presses a warm kiss to Enjolras’s temple and, half asleep, Enjolras just smiles up at him and mutters, “‘kay.”

His eyes are blurry, which probably explains why he can’t read the expression that crosses Grantaire’s face.

He doses until Grantaire comes back, then grumpily pulls Grantaire back down against him, yawning into his shoulder.

Grantaire laughs.

“God, sorry, I don’t know why I’m so tired,” Enjolras says, eyes watering with another yawn.

Grantaire jostles him, getting an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t know, probably because you had a pretty busy day: got arrested, lost your job, had a panic attack, talked about your feelings; that's a whole load of tiring shit.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees, then Grantaire’s words slowly penetrate and his eyes snap open. “Shit, _shit_.”

“What?” Grantaire asks, sounding alarmed.

Enjolras turns to him, eyes widening. “I _lost my job_.”

Grantaire blinks twice then shakes his head. “I mean I _could_ be wrong? Maybe they won’t mind you stealing their files?”

Enjolras presses a hand to his mouth, some kind of hysterical, delighted, terrified laugh bubbling in his throat. “Oh my god, I never have to go back to that place.” He grabs Grantaire’s face between his hands and kisses him. 

“Woah,” Grantaire laughs. “I’m getting emotional whiplash from you today.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, no, no, R, you don’t understand. I never have to go back to that place.”

“Love it when you call me R; you don’t do it enough,” Grantaire says, cupping Enjolras’s face the same way Enjolras is cupping his. “Also, if you’d tried to go back, I think we would all have sat on you until you gave up.”

It’s nonsensical for that to feel so touching, but somehow it does, and Enjolras kisses him again, and again. They end up leaning into Grantaire’s piles of pillows, trading kisses until there’s a quiet knock on the door.

“Oh,” Jehan says, after easing the door open. “I was being quiet so I didn’t wake anyone up, but you look… awake.” There’s a twinkle in their eyes.

“What? No, we’re fast asleep.” Grantaire sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as though he has never known a shred of embarrassment in this world. “Did you need us?”

“Inspector Javert is here to see Enjolras,” Jehan says, with an apologetic smile at Enjolras. “We asked if it could wait until tomorrow, but he said it was important.”

Grantaire’s hand is immediately on Enjolras’s arm. “You’re not getting arrested,” he says. “That’s not happening.”

Distantly, Enjolras is aware of Jehan slipping back out of the room, but most of his attention is focused on Grantaire and Grantaire’s calm, certain expression. “I’m not getting arrested,” he echoes.

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras nods back.

He can do this.

Javert never wears a uniform, because he’s too senior for that, but he has clearly dressed casually this evening in an effort not to look intimidating. Embarrassment burns Enjolras’s cheeks. 

“Monsieur Enjolras,” he says, rising to his feet and holding out his hand.

Enjolras takes a breath, lets go of Grantaire and shakes Javert’s hand firmly. “Inspector.”

They sit opposite each other on either side of the low coffee table, Javert in an armchair and Enjolras on the sofa. Grantaire sits next to him and Jehan and Courfeyrac take the other sofa. Enjolras very much appreciates not being left alone.

“Look at the lovely flowers Inspector Javert brought me,” Jehan says, after a few moments of silence. They point at a brightly coloured bunch of tulips sitting on the divide between the kitchen and living room.

“He never brings me flowers,” Courfeyrac mutters, wrinkling his nose at Javert.

“Because you’re the bane of my life,” Javert says mildly, “whereas Mx Prouvaire is always charming.”

“Always charming,” Jehan mouths at Courfeyrac who puts out his tongue at them.

In other circumstances, Enjolras would be enjoying this conversation, but he’s too tense to enjoy discovering that his friends have a teasing, almost-familial relationship with a man he thought was corrupt a few hours ago.

“How can I help you, Inspector?” he asks.

Javert folds his hands in his lap and turns his full attention on Enjolras. “Thenardier was arrested two hours ago and bailed an hour later.”

“Bailed?” Grantaire demands. “How?”

“He has very good lawyers,” Enjolras tells him.

“So do we,” Courfeyrac says, which makes Javert shake his head.

“I’ve told Jean that you don’t need to get involved; the Office of the Prosecutor has perfectly good lawyers. We don’t need you bringing a private prosecution and getting in the way.”

“If your case fails though?” Courfeyrac wheedles.

“It won’t.”

“If it does though?”

Javert sighs. “ _If_ it does, we’ll talk about it.”

Courfeyrac nods, apparently satisfied and waves a hand between Enjolras and Javert, telling them to continue.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Enjolras says. “What do you need from me?”

“Nothing for now.” Javert leans forward. “I wanted to advise you not to return home for the time being.”

Enjolras blinks. “Because Thenardier knows where I live?”

“He may not,” Javert says, “but do you trust your former employer to protect your privacy?”

Enjolras doesn’t need to think about it. “Not at all,” he agrees. He wants to rub a hand over his face, exhausted by yet another problem, but he’s been weak enough in front of Javert today; he doesn’t want to show himself up again.

“Obviously you’ll stay here,” Courfeyrac says as if there’s no question. “Right?” He looks at Grantaire who nods and echoes, “Obviously.”

“You don’t know how long it’ll be for,” Enjolras argues. “I can get a hotel.”

Javert pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll leave you to this conversation. Gentlemen, Mx Prouvaire.” 

“Obviously you’ll stay here,” Courfeyrac repeats, while Jehan walks Javert to the door. “We’re not sending you out into the wilderness to get eaten by that Thenardier bastard.”

Enjolras glances toward the door, where Jehan is hopefully still out of earshot. “Some of you might not want me here; you should check, first.”

“Eh, Angel Cat is pretty easily bought with some treats,” Courfeyrac says, deliberately misunderstanding him.

“Look, if the issue is that you don’t want to share with me long-term, I get it,” Grantaire says, ignoring everything else being said. “I can take the sofa, or even go to Joly’s. They have a spare room that I don’t think any of them ever use.”

“That’s not the issue,” Enjolras says. He wishes that Courfeyrac wasn’t here to watch him blushing. Actually, he wishes neither of them were here; he’d much rather have this conversation by himself. “Don’t sleep on the sofa.”

“Aww,” Courfeyrac whispers.

“All sorted?” Jehan asks, coming to stand behind the sofa and putting their hands on Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “You’re staying with us?”

Enjolras looks between the three of them and sighs, giving up. “Thank you,” he says. “I’ll try not to outstay my welcome.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Grantaire says and throws a cushion at him.

***

It isn’t that Enjolras wakes up early, more that he doesn’t really sleep at all. It turns out that his brain has a lot to think about and requires being awake to do it, so he spends most of the night curled up on one side of Grantaire’s bed, trying not to toss or turn or disturb him.

It’s a relief when daybreak comes and Enjolras has an excuse to get out of bed.

He slips silently out of Grantaire’s bedroom, and instantly receives a rapturous welcome from Angel.

“Don’t be noisy,” he tells her sternly, which makes her purr and wrap around his ankles like a furry tripwire. “What is it? Do you want food?”

Angel doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t seem adverse to food, when Enjolras finds a box of cat treats and pours some out for her.

“There,” he says, while her tail swishes back and forth on the floor behind her, “are you happy now?”

Apparently she is, because he gets one more rub of her little warm body against his legs before she disappears into Courfeyrac and Jehan’s room, presumably for a post-breakfast nap.

Left alone, Enjolras can’t help feeling a little abandoned, which is ridiculous. He’s lived on his own for years; he can’t feel lonely in an apartment with three other people just because a cat has left him.

Tsking at himself and with no other real plan in mind, he starts to tidy the living area a little. Which leads to cleaning the kitchen. Which leads to him standing at the sink, elbows deep in suds, when Courfeyrac finds him.

“Are you doing the dishes?” Courfeyrac asks, blinking at him like he’s a mirage. He’s dressed for work, except for his tie, which is hanging loose under his collar, as if that’s a step too far this early in the day.

“I am,” Enjolras agrees. “Are you going to work?”

Courfeyrac blinks at him some more.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, “I thought we were stating the obvious this morning.”

“Oooh, someone’s cranky.” Courfeyrac bumps their shoulders together, apparently not minding Enjolras’s bad mood. Which isn’t even really a bad mood, he just feels too on-edge for pleasantries and too tired to hide it.

Courfeyrac leans over and around him, filling the coffee machine with water from the same tap that Enjolras is using, taking a mug down from the cupboard over Enjolras’s head and stealing a still-wet spoon from the little pile at Enjolras’s elbow.

“You know you don’t have to do our chores, right?” Courfeyrac asks, one and a half cups of coffee later. 

Enjolras has moved on to wiping down the surfaces by this point.

“It gives me something to do,” Enjolras says, sighing as Angel immediately jumps up onto the damp kitchen counter. 

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “Did you sleep?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says firmly. It might not necessarily be a lie. There were definitely times last night when the clock ticked from one hour to the next faster than he was expecting, so he might have dozed during those times. 

He looks around and, finding nothing left to clean, turns back to Courfeyrac. “Do you have any running clothes I could borrow?”

“Cute of you to think I can still run,” Courfeyrac says, then grins before Enjolras can apologise. “Yeah, hang on, I’ll find something. Go and check out the pile of shoes by the door; something in there should fit you.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras calls to Courfeyrac’s retreating back, more relieved than he can say that Courfeyrac isn’t going to tell him to go back to bed.

***

Running is a terrible idea. Enjolras is exhausted when he starts and even more exhausted when he finishes, but at least he gets to see the streets and people of Paris, and that always makes him feel better.

He’s soaked in sweat with an uncomfortable stitch in his side by the time he gets back to the apartment. Or, rather, by the time he gets back to Grantaire’s shop, which is now open.

Enjolras is sure there must be a back way up to the apartment, but he doesn’t know what it is, so he has to walk through the shop, straight past the table where Grantaire is tattooing a young lady’s upper thigh.

“Sorry, one sec,” Grantaire says to his client, laying down his tattoo gun and walking around the table to get to Enjolras. “Hey, there.”

“Hey,” says Enjolras and only realises he was expecting a kiss when he doesn’t get one. Ridiculous. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

Grantaire waves that off. “Joly’s upstairs.” He sniffs Enjolras and makes a face. “Maybe shower before you say hello.”

“I’m sure I smell delightful,” Enjolras says primly, but does as he’s told, heading to the bathroom and showering off his run before going to find Joly.

He probably would have greeted Joly first, if he’d realised Joly was alone up here. He’d assumed that he’d find Joly and Jehan curled up together whispering secrets, the way he always remembers them being. Instead, he finds Joly alone on one of the sofas, quietly playing a handheld video game device.

“Hello?” Enjolras says, stopping in the doorway. “Have you been abandoned?”

“Oh, no, everyone had already gone to work before I arrived,” Joly says. He looks up at Enjolras and smiles at him. “But now you’re here! Come and sit with me! No, wait, get yourself some water first, you look dehydrated.”

Enjolras isn’t sure that he does, but he doesn’t argue, just pours himself a glass of water in the kitchen and fetches one for Joly too.

“Thank you! I brought you a present.” Joly reaches into the bag at his feet and pulls out a Kinder Surprise, which he hands over to Enjolras.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, accepting it without asking why. He knows better than to ask Joly’s reasons for things. 

“Always fun and sometimes educational!” Joly says happily. He turns his full attention on Enjolras and smiles a smile that instantly makes Enjolras suspicious. “I also brought you a prescription.”

He goes back into his bag, this time emerging with a small, white, rectangular box.

“That’s not a prescription,” Enjolras says automatically, eying the box.

“I filled it for you, because of how nice I am,” Joly says and sets the box down on the table. “You don’t have to take them, but they’re a really good starter medication, for people who want to get on top of their anxiety.”

A million questions go through Enjolras’s head. Most prominent is _What makes you think I’m anxious?_ but he’s worried that Joly will actually answer that.

“Who snitched?” he asks instead, hoping it sounds at least slightly like a joke.

“I’m not telling, but you should know that Jehan, R and I have a whatsapp group and they’re both worried about you.”

Enjolras picks up the box. Turns it over. Puts it down again. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” Joly says easily. “Like I said, it’s up to you, but if you do take them and if they do work for you, then you’re going to need to speak to a psychologist to get some more. This is a one-off Doctor Joly delivery.”

“A psychologist who isn’t you?” Enjolras asks. He can’t imagine speaking to a stranger about anything so private.

Joly reaches out and squeezes Enjolras’s knee without looking at him. “I don’t treat my friends,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’d find you someone lovely.”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says again.

“Have you ever spoken to anyone about it?” Joly asks, quietly.

“About what exactly?”

“Your post traumatic stress,” Joly says.

“How can I possibly have… nothing traumatic happened to _me_.”

“No? Oh. My mistake.”

They’re both quiet. Enjolras because his head is spinning. Joly, presumably, to make a point.

“Want to watch me run around an island on Animal Crossing?” Joly asks at last.

“Yes, please,” says Enjolras, relieved. He shifts closer to Joly and watches while he turns his video game player thing back on and tips the screen so Enjolras can see it too.

It seems like a pretty soothing game, featuring a tiny Joly running around an island and talking to strangely dressed animals. Joly narrates what he’s doing as he does it, something about turnips and bells, but Enjolras struggles to pay attention.

He keeps thinking about the little box on the table.

Every time he tries to stop thinking about it, he thinks about it again.

Finally, tired of his own indecision, he snatches up the packet and pops a tablet out onto his palm.

“Just one,” Joly says, without looking away from his game.

Enjolras doesn’t answer, just swallows the tablet with a gulp of water, and sinks back against Joly’s side, waiting for something to happen.

“You’re not going to spontaneously combust,” Joly says fondly. “And you’re going to have to take a few more before anything really happens and it’ll be like, six weeks before you feel the full effect.”

“One per day?” Enjolras asks.

“One per day,” Joly says. “Now, help me pick which shoes to wear before I get on a plane with a dodo.”

***

Joly stays for dinner, which they all have scattered around the living area. Everyone is in a good mood, and conversation is loud and happy.

Enjolras enjoys it, but he struggles to really take part, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave and keeping him under.

“Go to bed,” Grantaire murmurs to him, the second time Enjolras finds himself drifting off over his half-eaten pizza.

“I’m comfortable here,” Enjolras argues, which earns him a huff.

“That’s because you’re basically sleeping on me.”

Is he? Enjolras blinks, and realises he’s slumped a lot deeper into Grantaire’s side than he’d realised. He’d thought he was leaning against him a reasonable amount, not… this much.

“Oh, sorry.”

He tries to sit up, fails, and finds himself pulled back, tucked under Grantaire’s arm and his pizza box taken off his lap.

“I know you basically didn’t sleep last night,” Grantaire says, still speaking quietly so the others won’t hear. 

“Mm,” Enjolras agrees, too tired to argue.

Grantaire looks surprised, which is fair. Enjolras is surprised too. He _always_ pretends to have slept. But what’s the point, when it’s barely eight o’clock and he’s barely awake.

“Go to sleep,” Grantaire says again.

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees, and closes his eyes.

He feels Grantaire’s chest hitch under his cheek and then Grantaire says, “I didn’t mean… never mind,” but that’s the last he hears.

***

At some point, Grantaire must succeed in sending him to bed, because Enjolras blinks awake to find himself undressed and under the duvet, just as Grantaire is climbing in beside him.

“What are these?” Grantaire asks, picking up the box of tablets, which Enjolras left on his bedside table for exactly that purpose. He wasn’t sure how to tell Grantaire that he’d agreed to try them, but he doesn’t mind if Grantaire finds out for himself.

“From Joly,” Enjolras says, snuggling down under the covers.

“Huh,” says Grantaire. “Are you taking them?"

"Mm," Enjolras agrees. 

"That’s really good. Well done.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, just rolls away and presses his face into the cool part of the pillow. His eyes are still so heavy.

The light goes out and then the bed shifts as Grantaire gets comfortable. After a minute, Grantaire puts a warm hand on Enjolras’s ribs and kisses the back of his shoulder.

“I mean it, that’s a big step.”

“Joly says I need to see a psychologist, if I want more,” Enjolras admits to the dark bedroom. “You… do that, don’t you? What’s it like?”

“Therapy?” Grantaire laughs. “It sucks. Like, seriously, it is the absolute worst and I hate it. But also it’s probably the best thing I’ve ever done so, you know, you should think about it.”

Enjolras huffs. “Because you sold it so well.” Then, because Grantaire is always honest with him and because it’s the thing he’s been worrying about most, he asks, “Do you think anyone will think less of me, if I do?”

Grantaire’s laughter cuts away. “ _No_ ,” he says. “God, no. I mean, somewhere in the big wide world there’s probably someone who would, but no one who matters.”

“Right, okay.” Enjolras nods. “That’s what I thought.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says gently, shifting so he can look down at Enjolras’s face. “When Joly and Jehan were trying to persuade me to get help, I told them that I couldn’t quit drinking because it was the only thing that got me through a day without crying. They told me that it would be better if I just cried, that I didn't have to pretend to be okay. That apparently people would still love me even if I wasn’t okay. So.” He pauses there, until Enjolras looks up at him. “I'm paying it forward: you're not okay and I… and people will still love you.”

“Oh.” Enjolras reaches down and finds Grantaire’s hand, holding it tight against his stomach. “Thank you.”

Grantaire leans his forehead against the back of Enjolras’s shoulder and neither of them says anything for a while. 

Eventually, back to being mostly asleep, Enjolras stretches, pressing back against Grantaire’s chest. “I’m sorry I’m not being a very interesting bed partner, at the moment.”

“Trust me, you’re never boring.” Grantaire falls quiet for a minute then says, “I was going to pretend that I didn’t know what you were talking about, but actually, what the fuck?”

“What?” Enjolras frowns. “What did I say?”

Grantaire pokes him once then pokes him again after each word. “Don’t apologise for not fancying a fuck, oh my god. I wouldn’t have touched you last night, if you’d paid me.”

“Yes, I suppose I was particularly pathetic yesterday, wasn’t I?” Enjolras says heavily.

Grantaire makes a deep, pained sound. “I’m going to smother you with this pillow. I wouldn’t have touched you yesterday, because you were shattered, and I won’t touch you tonight for exactly the same reason. _And_ I don’t like the implication that you need to put out to be welcome in my bed.”

“I…” Enjolras opens his mouth and closes it again. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah. Well.” Grantaire pulls him roughly back against him, somehow conveying annoyance through the tight cinch of his arm across Enjolras’s chest.

Enjolras puts his hand on Grantaire’s arm. “I promise never to imply I want to have sex with you ever again.”

He holds his breath, hoping that will make Grantaire laugh.

After a moment, it does.

“Shut the fuck up,” Grantaire says, but his grip relaxes and his hand slips down to rest against Enjolras’s belly instead. “Go to sleep.”

***

Enjolras has been able to function on a handful of hours of rest for years now, but apparently he’s finally reached his limit because he spends the next few days sleeping, and sleeping, and sleeping some more.

He wakes up late every day, naps away a good chunk of each afternoon, then drops into a dead sleep again every night.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he says, blinking up at Grantaire, when Grantaire gets back into bed on Friday morning, tablet in hand, and pulls the duvet back up over Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong with you; you’re exhausted,” Grantaire says. He props his tablet against his knees and taps his stylus against it. “Some of it is probably side effects of the meds, so that’ll wear off soon. I’m sure you’ll be back to your energetic and righteous self soon.”

“That would be nice,” says Enjolras who hasn’t felt energetic or righteous in years.

He shifts under Grantaire’s arm and puts his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, watching while he draws. 

After a moment, he frowns. “Oh, you’re left handed? Why didn’t I know that?”

Grantaire is drawing some kind of highly stylised snake, shading its eyes until they seem to pierce right through the screen. “I guess you’ve never really seen me draw?”

“No, I have. You used to do it all the time in meetings ”

“I didn't realise you paid… I mean, in that case you’re just massively unobservant.” Grantaire presses a kiss to the top of Enjolras’s head. “Hush, you’re interrupting my artistic flow.”

“Sorry.” Sleepily, Enjolras traces his fingers along Grantaire’s stubble, dragging a fingertip over his lips until Grantaire pretends to bite him.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” The stubble on Grantaire’s chin is a million shades of chestnut and brown, just like his hair. Half-asleep, Enjolras is fascinated.

Grantaire puts down his stylus. “No, seriously, what are you doing?”

“You’re very handsome,” Enjolras tells him, which shouldn’t be a surprise, since surely Grantaire owns a mirror, but it makes Grantaire suck in a harsh breath.

“What?”

“What?” Enjolras echoes.

Grantaire puts his hand over Enjolras’s and peels it off his face, setting it down on his chest instead. “Enjolras. Please. Don’t.”

Enjolras curls his fingers into a lost fist. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Grantaire has always had the same face; it shouldn’t suddenly be the only thing Enjolras wants to look at.

“Sorry for distracting you.”

“That’s not…” Grantaire sighs. “You can’t just… say that and look like that and… never mind. It’s fine.”

Eventually, Grantaire gets out of bed to take his snake design downstairs and tattoo it onto his first client of the day.

Enjolras stays in bed for a few more minutes, checking to see if exhaustion is going to wash over him again. It doesn’t come; in fact, he feels more awake and clear headed than he has in longer than he can remember. His head doesn’t even hurt; he’d forgotten that was possible.

He finds Jehan in the kitchen, buttering toast with a mug of coffee at their elbow.

“Good morning,” Jehan says, sliding an empty mug over to Enjolras. “Toast?”

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, pouring himself coffee.

Once they’ve both finished making their breakfasts, Jehan hesitates in the doorway. “Come and sit with me,” they say, “you can help me with my work.”

“I’m not sure how much help I’ll be,” Enjolras says, secretly relieved. The two of them haven’t spent any time relaxing one-on-one since Enjolras came back. In fact, Enjolras isn’t certain they ever hung out just the two of them before either.

He wouldn’t have imposed his company on Jehan uninvited in their own home, but he doesn’t actually want to go back to Grantaire’s bedroom yet. He’s worried he’ll develop bedsores if he lies down much longer.

Neither of them are much given to needless smalltalk, but the quiet is soothing. Joly’s bells and turnips game had turned out to be fairly interesting, so Enjolras has been playing it on Courfeyrac’s Nintendo Switch.

He focuses on that and Jehan focuses on their work, both of them pausing to sip coffee and eat toast in between, until Jehan says, “What’s another word for ‘contender’, please?”

“Um, ‘challenger’?”

“Ooh, nice!” Jehan grins at him and scribbles it down.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, leaning over to see the slim, printed book that Jehan is scribbling all over.

“It’s Spanish poetry,” Jehan says, “see.” They tilt the book so that Enjolras can see it better, which doesn’t help particularly, since he can’t speak Spanish.

“You’re teaching it?” Enjolras guesses.

“Oh! No! I don’t do that sort of teaching anymore.” Jehan waves the book at him. “I do freelance translating, mostly poetry but other things too, if people will pay me for it.”

Enjolras frowns. “You loved teaching. I remember how much you loved it.”

“Mmhmm.” Jehan swings their legs around, so they’re tucked up underneath them on the sofa, looking much more comfortable as they face Enjolras now. “I really did. I hated standing up in front of the class though. So I switched from high school to teaching French as a foreign language at the community centre.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Enjolras says, interested. “For people applying for citizenship?”

Jehan nods. “Mostly. But also asylum seekers and the families of immigrants. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s wonderful, and sometimes I can direct people to Courf and Feuilly if they need help with immigration law.”

“I would love to be involved in that,” Enjolras starts to say then frowns. “Except I suppose I need to find a job first, before I start offering up my services.”

Jehan pulls a blanket off the back of the sofa and busies themself spreading it over their legs, offering the other corner for Enjolras to warm his feet under.

“Monsieur Valjean will take you on, if that’s what you want,” they say. “It wouldn’t be the same sort of money you were getting in the corporate sector, but I can guarantee he’s a nicer boss.”

“Monsieur Valjean has never met me,” Enjolras says, then holds up his hand before Jehan can say what they’re clearly going to say next. “And I know that Courfeyrac would vouch for me, but I’m fairly certain Monsieur Valjean will want more than that and I’m not going to be able to get a reference from my last job.”

Jehan clearly has more they want to say, but before they can, Grantaire yells from downstairs, “Visitors coming up!”

“Oh!” Jehan says, jumping. “I, uh, I’m not expecting anyone, are you?”

“I’m not.” Enjolras starts to stand, even though he knows Grantaire wouldn’t have let just anyone come upstairs. 

“Hello?” someone calls and then two people appear at the top of the stairs: Cosette, very closely followed by Marius.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Enjolras demands, potentially not very graciously, but he’s wearing borrowed sleep clothes and hasn’t showered or shaved in days.

"Visiting you, of course," Cosette says, smiling brightly at him. "Oh it's so good to see you!"

Enjolras knows that she's going to hug him just before she does and he thinks he makes it through the process fairly successfully. He offers his hand to Marius, before another hug can occur. Marius, frankly, looks relieved.

“We wanted to check that you were all right,” Marius says, hanging onto Enjolras’s hand. “You didn’t call, and we only knew where you were because Cosette’s father…” He puts a hand over his mouth, looking guilty. “Oh, I wasn’t meant to say that.”

“It’s all right,” Cosette says, patting his arm. 

Marius glows.

“I supposed you’d better come in then,” Enjolras says, stepping back. “If that’s all right with you, of course?” he adds to Jehan, who looks a lot as if they wish they could teleport straight out of the room or possibly melt into the sofa.

Jehan smiles and says, “Of course,” all while shrinking further back under their blanket.

Enjolras makes the introductions, then frowns, looking at Cosette. “Unless you already secretly know each other?”

“We’ve never actually met,” Cosette says, ignoring any other implications.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Marius says, beaming at Jehan. “Your Monsieur de Courfeyrac talks about you all the time. It’s so nice to meet you.” He glances down at the book on Jehan’s lap and somehow manages to smile wider. “Oh! Do you speak Spanish?”

Jehan nods and holds up the book for Marius to see. Within seconds, Marius has swooped in, stealing Enjolras’s spot on the sofa, and he and Jehan are comparing all the languages they speak between them.

Enjolras lets out a breath and starts to feel less guilty about allowing strangers into Jehan’s home.

“I need to talk to you,” Cosette says quietly, so Enjolras leads her into the kitchen, where they’re not exactly in private, but they’re less likely to be overheard.

“Coffee?” he asks her, pouring them both a cup before she can respond. He knows she always wants a coffee.

“I, uh, actually prefer tea,” Cosette says, looking apologetic.

“Are any of the things I know about you true?” Enjolras asks, pouring away the coffee and feeling inexplicably sad as he watches it swirl down the drain.

“You know that I’m your friend,” says Cosette. “And I hope you know that I wouldn’t have kept secrets from you, if I didn’t have to.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer that, just starts to make her a cup of black tea. “You can talk,” he says. “I’m listening.”

“Technically my name is Euphrasie. But I really do go by Cosette. I’m Cosette Valjean.”

That gets Enjolras to turn around. “ _Valjean_? Monsieur Valjean is your father… Wait, is Inspector Javert also your father?” 

Cosette nods, smiling. “Yes, that’s right. Neither of them wanted me to join the police, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do, so I did.” She touches his arm softly. “I specialise in working undercover, which essentially means I specialise in lying to people I care about.”

Enjolras pauses, midway through stirring sugar into her tea. “You and Javert were both undercover?”

“Yes, and it was working beautifully, no one suspected a thing.” She flicks the arm that she’d just rubbed. “You really are a menace, you know?”

Automatically, Enjolras turns toward her, suddenly worried. “Did I put you at risk?”

“No, because like I said, I’m very good at my job.” Cosette takes the tea cup out of his hands and nods her thank you. “Look, the reason I came to see you was partly to finally tell you the truth and also partly to ask if it came to it, would you be prepared to give evidence?”

“In court?” Enjolras asks.

Cosette nods. “The files you stole are really useful, but Patron-Minette are arguing that they’re insubmissible, because you were in breach of the confidentiality clauses in your contract. It might be useful to get you on the stand to convince the judge why you did what you did.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, because she sounds as though she has a long list of arguments and he doesn’t need them. “Of course I’ll do that.”

Cosette looks surprised. “Oh. I thought you’d need persuading.”

Enjolras smiles, feeling embarrassed for himself. “I’ve met you at an odd time in my life,” he says, “but if you’d known me before, when I was a better person, you’d know that I never pass up an opportunity to righteously stand up for what’s right.”

“Oh, Enjolras,” Cosette says, looking sad. “You’re still a good person.”

“You more than anyone know that’s not been true for a long time,” Enjolras says, then finds he can’t continue this line of conversation. “What are you doing now? Are you still on the case?”

“I’m staying undercover for a while longer, but after that, I think I’ll go back to regular detective work for a while. I, uh, well.” She glances over at where Marius is still chatting enthusiastically with Jehan and blushes. “It’s hard to have a personal life, when you have to lie about everything.”

“I’m pleased,” Enjolras says, meaning it. “Marius adores you.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” Cosette agrees. “A bit sincere sometimes though. Should we go and stage a rescue?”

Enjolras isn’t sure if she’s giving him a reprieve from this conversation or herself, but he takes it.

Jehan and Marius seem to be discussing some obscure facet of English grammar, but they break off when Enjolras and Cosette come back: Marius to stare adoringly at Cosette and Jehan to look meaningfully at the arm of their chair.

Enjolras sits down there, providing a silent buffer.

"Marius, how are you doing? Are they being okay to you at work?" he asks.

Marius rolls his eyes. "Of course not. When are they ever?" He twists his fingers together nervously then blurts out. "I'm job hunting. As soon as I find somewhere else, I'll resign."

Jehan meets Enjolras's eyes. 

Enjolras nods.

Yes, he thinks that Marius deserves a job with Monsieur Valjean, much more than he does, but he's not going to be the one to mention it. At least, not in front of Monsieur Valjean's daughter.

"You said that as though you expected us to be horrified," Cosette says. "I think it's a wonderful idea. Very brave."

"Oh. Uh. You do?" Marius's chest puffs up. "I didn't expect _you_ to be horrified, but my grandfather will be. It was his connections that got me the job in the first place."

"Almost all of us have disappointed family members," Jehan says gently. "If you're going to join the ABC, you'll fit right in."

"Am I?" Marius asks, wide eyed. "Going to join, I mean?"

"You'd be very welcome," says Enjolras then belatedly remembers that _he_ isn't a member anymore, so he really shouldn't invite anyone else. It only hurts like a small dagger to a small vital organ. "That is. I'm sure you would be."

Jehan very clearly and very pointedly rolls their eyes at him.

"Courf is going to invite you," Jehan says. "Cosette, I know your fathers would rather you stayed away, but you've always been welcome too."

Cosette's jaw sets firmly. "Oh I'm joining," she says. "I've always wanted to and I'm going to as soon as this assignment is over."

Enjolras waits, almost afraid to hope, but Jehan doesn't say anything to him about rejoining.

Oh well. What could he expect?

"You're very kind," Marius says, blushing. "I've been invited to your wedding too. I hope that's okay?"

Jehan smiles. “Almost everyone has been invited to our wedding. Every time Courf meets someone he likes, suddenly they’re coming to the wedding. Hopefully half of them will have forgotten who he is by the time we send out the invitations, but you’d be very welcome. You too of course, Cosette.”

“Ooh yes, you could come with me,” Marius says then blushes. “I mean. I mean. You could be my… uh…”

“Date?” asks Cosette, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Marius nods, looking torn between delight and misery.

“I’d love to,” Cosette says, and squeezes his hand.

They leave not long after that, apparently on their way to have lunch together. Enjolras is struck by the odd feeling of missing them, as soon as they're out of sight. Deciding to once again have friends is a minefield.

“Aw, they’re so sweet,” Jehan sighs. “Also what’s the bet that if Marius’s grandfather kicks up a fuss, Courfeyrac will be beating down his door within seconds?”

“No bet,” Enjolras says, but he’s distracted.

***

He stays distracted through the morning, through making them both lunch, and into the afternoon. By the time he tells Jehan that he’s going downstairs, he thinks Jehan is nothing but relieved to be free of his pacing.

Grantaire is the only one in the shop, when Enjolras gets down there. He’s sitting cross-legged on one of the tattoo tables, adding some shading to the same design he was drawing this morning.

“Hello you,” he says, smiling up at Enjolras when he spots him.

“Hi,” Enjolras says, startled by how pleased he feels to see him. He briefly forgets what he was going to say. “Hello.”

Grantaire pats the table next to him. “Hop up,” he says. When Enjolras does, Grantaire leans forward and kisses him, casually as if they do that all the time.

Which, now Enjolras is thinking about it, he supposes they do.

“Have fun with your friends?” Grantaire asks. “They looked very lovey-dovey, when they left.”

“Jehan thinks it’s romantic,” says Enjolras, which makes Grantaire say, “Duh.”

There’s a black, leatherbound book on the edge of the table. Enjolras flicks through the first few pages, realising as he does so that they’re all tattoo designs.

“Marius is going to resign,” Enjolras says.

“I should fucking hope so.” Grantaire puts his hand over Enjolras’s as he fiddles with the book. “Okay?”

“He’s worried that his family will disapprove, which made me realise that _my_ parents are going to hit the roof, when they find out what I’ve done.”

“Does that matter?” Grantaire asks. “I don’t ever remember you caring what they thought before.”

Enjolras offers him a wry smile. “I always cared; I was just young and stupid enough to pretend that I didn’t.”

“Ah, a problem for us all,” Grantaire agrees. “So… are you going to find another job that will impress them as much as your last one? Maybe you can find a firm that defends animal torturers or something.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras mutters. “No, I was actually thinking the opposite.”

“Animal… huggers?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras bites down on a smile. “Maybe. No, what I meant was that I never want to work in corporate law ever again. I want to do work that really matters, and I don’t want to be able to back down from that, no matter what happens.”

“All right?” Grantaire says slowly. “So work with Courf?”

Carefully, Enjolras bangs his head against Grantaire’s shoulder. “I probably will, but I want… I want…” He looks up. “I want a tattoo.”

Grantaire blinks. “Well. That was the last thing I expected you to say.”

“My previous employer had a policy against tattoos, which is probably illegal, but a lot of the big firms do. I want a tattoo that I can’t hide, so I can’t ever work for any of them, even if I do try to go crawling back there.”

“You won’t,” Grantaire says, showing more faith in Enjolras than Enjolras has in himself. “And I’m not tattooing your face. I mean, I don’t tattoo anyone’s faces, but particularly not yours, since it’s my favourite.”

Enjolras ignores his nonsense and pushes up his sleeves, instead. “I was thinking of an arm.”

Grantaire reaches out and rubs the calloused tips of his fingers over the embarrassingly soft skin of his left arm. “You can hide that with a shirt sleeve.”

“Not if it goes over my hand too.”

Enjolras turns his hand over and laces his fingers with Grantaire. “Will you do it? Please?”

“Fuck,” Grantaire breathes. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

Enjolras frowns at him. “It’s your job?”

“I have never in my life been asked to tattoo actual porcelain,” Grantaire says, ridiculously. “Oh god, no, I can’t do it. What if you hate it?”

Enjolras squeezes his fingers. “I won’t. Your art is extraordinary and I’d be honoured to have it on my body.”

“Shut up. Shut _up_.” 

Enjolras waits. After a minute, Grantaire squints up at him.

“If you grow to hate it, you won’t hate me?”

“I won’t,” Enjolras says, to both parts.

“And, if you grow to hate me, you won’t hate it?”

“I _won’t_ ,” Enjolras says, much more firmly.

“Ugh, god, okay.” Grantaire uses their joined hands to hide his face. “What were you thinking?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No idea. I haven’t exactly had long to think about it.”

Grantaire groans. “Oh good, a spur of the moment tattoo. Those are notoriously a great idea.” He pulls his hand free and reaches for his tablet. “Okay, okay, give me a few… years, and I’ll come up with something worthy of you.”

“How about ten minutes?” Enjolras suggests. “I want to do it today, if you have time. That way, I can’t chicken out.”

“If that’s likely, then we’re definitely not doing this,” Grantaire says, starting to sound panicked.

Enjolras reaches out and takes hold of one of his flailing arms. “R,” he says. “Please.”

Grantaire stares at him then deflates. “I never should have said I like it when you call me that. All right. Fine. _Fine_. You’re sure? Fine.” He slides down off the table and puts his free hand on his hip. “I’m going for a walk. When I come back, I’ll have an idea. If you hate it, you _have_ to tell me.”

He looks so stern that Enjolras finds himself nodding. “I promise.”

Grantaire waves a finger at him. “Stay there.”

Bemused, Enjolras watches him stomp to the door, flip the closed sign around, and then stomp out onto the street. Maybe he’s right and this isn’t the sort of decision that Enjolras should make without thinking it through, but Enjolras doesn’t care.

He wants to be spontaneous. He wants to protect himself from making the easy career decision ever again.

He picks up one of Grantaire’s books and starts flicking through the designs, while he waits for Grantaire to work off his nerves and come back to him. He’s confident that this is a good idea.

***

Getting a tattoo turns out to be a fascinating experience.

It doesn’t hurt, which Enjolras had been braced for. It stings, but the vibration of the tattoo gun is more distracting than the press of the needle.

Even more distracting than either of them is the way Grantaire snaps into a serious professional, the moment he picks up Enjolras’s arm. There is a frown of concentration above his nose and a look of absolute confidence in his eyes.

The way that he clearly knows exactly what he’s doing is almost unbearably hot.

“All right?” he asks every now and then, turning Enjolras’s arm this way and that while he draws thin, careful lines across Enjolras’s skin.

“Fine,” Enjolras says and hopes no one notices the squeak in his voice.

Grantaire, obviously, does. He sets down the gun and looks up. “Is it too much? We can take a break.”

Enjolras swallows. “It’s not too much.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Seriously. I can finish the line work and add the colour some other time. Or never, if you’re really uncomfortable.”

“R,” Enjolras snaps, at the end of his tether. “I’m not uncomfortable, I’m _hard_.”

“Oh.” Grantaire blinks. His eyes going wide. “ _Oh_. That does happen sometimes; it’s the adrenaline.”

Enjolras isn’t convinced that’s true in his case. He thinks it’s much more likely to be due to Grantaire’s gentle fingers and unwavering concentration.

There’s a blush highlighting the tops of Grantaire’s cheekbones. “So, want me to stop?”

Enjolras swallows hard and tells his penis that it is just going to have to be patient. “Don’t you dare top.” He blinks. “Stop. I meant _stop_. Oh shut up, don’t laugh at me, I’m compromised.”

Grantaire turns the power off on his tattoo gun, puts a hand over his face, and laughs loudly into his palms. It’s a genuine, deep, belly-laugh and it makes Enjolras even more desperate than before to get his hands on him.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire says, lowering his hands at last. His eyes are damp with tears of laughter. It makes something painful contract in Enjolras’s stomach. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” Enjolras enunciates clearly with as much dignity as he possibly can, then sits primly, waiting for Grantaire to get on with it.

Grantaire bites his lip, eyes twinkling, and takes a deep breath. “Okay, okay, I’m calm. Any colour preferences? Don’t say red, I already know you want that.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “You already know everything I want.”

Grantaire stares at him for another few seconds, then nods and spins his chair around to start picking coloured ink bottles from a shelf. 

“Genuinely can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” murmurs Grantaire, who has already been doing it for over an hour by now.

Not that an hour has been enough for Enjolras to stop feeling intrigued by this whole process. He leans on his other elbow, getting as close as he can without blocking Grantaire’s light, while Grantaire adds colour to the black lines that he has already drawn.

The sun is sinking outside the shop’s wide windows by the time Grantaire sits back, rolls his shoulders, and nods to himself. “There,” he says, pushing away from the table. “Done.”

Cautiously, Enjolras starts to lift his arm, but Grantaire stops him with two gentle fingers on Enjolras’s wrist. 

“Let me clean you up first.”

He’s brisk and professional as he rubs a sterile wipe over Enjolras’s skin, washing away smudges of colour and little dots of blood. Even that is almost more than Enjolras can bear. He is just so desperate to be touched.

“All right,” Grantaire says. “Take a proper look now.”

Enjolras does. He looks, and can’t stop looking.

His skin is red and swollen but not enough to marr the beauty of what Grantaire has done. Abstract lines and sketched curves travel from his wrist to his elbow, curling under the base of his thumb and kissing the back of his hand. They come together, making up all the parts of Paris that Enjolras loves best. 

Splashes of watercolour highlight the sun over the Sacre Coeur, the easels of Montmartre, the crest of the Eiffel tower, all in red, white and blue except for right at the base, just above Enjolras’s elbow, where Grantaire has turned the colours of the Pride flag into swirling, rainbow flames.

Enjolras watched each part of this come together, but the overall effect is still enough to take his breath away.

“Just to say, that if you hate it, it’s a little late to change it,” Grantaire says nervously. Apparently Enjolras has been quiet too long.

“Oh my god, kiss me right now,” Enjolras says and surges up against him.

Grantaire catches him, pulls him close, his brilliant, clever hands pressed hard against the small of Enjolras’s back.

“Careful,” Grantaire says, just before Enjolras’s arm brushes the material of Grantaire’s sleeve and he hisses. The pain still isn’t bad, but it’s sharp and raw, like a brand new graze.

“Can you close?” Enjolras asks without bothering to separate his lips from Grantaire’s. “Can you close the shop?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire laughs. “I’d be no good for anything, right now. Of course I’m closed.”

Relief washes over Enjolras. He would have waited, if Grantaire had a later appointment scheduled, but he thinks it might have killed him. “Then take me the fuck to bed.”

Grantaire does.

Well, he drags Enjolras upstairs and into his bedroom, pushes him down onto the bed, and says, “Give me your wallet,” which isn’t _quite_ what Enjolras had in mind.

“Why?” Enjolras blinks. “Are you going to rob me?”

“Sort of,” Grantaire says easily. He takes Enjolras’s wallet when he hands it over and pulls out Enjolras’s emergency twenty from its hiding place behind his Metro pass. Enjolras doesn’t really carry cash.

“Oh well, it’s a start,” Grantaire says inexplicably and leaves the room.

Enjolras would be more offended, but it gives him another chance to study his new tattoo, and he’s not passing that up. It really is spectacular. He likes it _so_ much. Maybe he’ll make more spontaneous decisions, considering how well this one has worked out.

Grantaire is smiling when he comes back into the room, but he cocks his head and frowns when he sees Enjolras. “I had a fantasy that you’d be naked,” he mutters.

“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” Enjolras protests. He finally manages to look away from his arm. “Also, I might need your help undressing.”

Grantaire waggles his eyebrows, but crosses to the bed and takes hold of the end of Enjolras’s sleeve so that Enjolras can pull his arm free without catching his skin on the fabric too much.

“I went to bribe Jehan to meet Courf after work and take him to dinner. They’re gone now, which is good, because I really feel like we’re going to be loud.”

Enjolras nods, eyes wide. “Okay,” he agrees and goes for his trousers. 

“Ah the romance has gone,” Grantaire says sadly, while he strips himself and Enjolras finishes getting himself naked. “Long gone are the days of sensuously undressing while staring into each other’s eyes.”

“What romance?” Enjolras asks. He’s joking. Or… maybe not joking, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. He doesn’t expect Grantaire’s eye to twitch or his mouth to pull into a straight line for a second, before he grabs Enjolras and presses it against Enjolras’s lips.

“Can I trust you to keep your arm out of the way?” Grantaire asks roughly.

“Of course,” Enjolras starts, then gets a better idea. “No. No, you absolutely can’t. You should do something about that.”

Grantaire’s eyes go dark and Enjolras finds himself being kissed like he’s the last gulp of water in a desert. They’re finally naked, Enjolras’s aching dick pressed against Grantaire’s solid stomach muscles, Grantaire’s strong arms around him.

Enjolras kisses back, grips Grantaire’s shoulder hard with one hand and flails around with the other until he decides just to push his hand up into Grantaire’s curls, holding him still.

Grantaire lets him for the space of seven, eight, nine kisses then pulls back and shakes his head. “Hair isn’t clean,” he says. “I’ll wrap you in clingfilm like a wilting lettuce if you don’t behave.”

Enjolras laughs, holding out both arms. “Make me behave then.”

“Oh don’t worry, I have a plan,” Grantaire promises and bites Enjolras’s bottom lip before stepping back and telling him, “lie down.”

Grantaire’s plan isn’t surprising but it is thrilling. Grantaire’s plan involves taking a soft, black bandana from the bottom of his wardrobe and tying it loosely around Enjolras’s wrist before tying the other end to his headboard.

It’s more a gesture than a real restraint since he can’t pull it tight because of the lines of tattoo that circle Enjolras’s wrist and spill down the back of his hand. It’s still entirely thrilling.

“There,” Grantaire says, looking satisfied. “Now you’ll have to behave.”

Enjolras spreads his legs very deliberately and says, “Make me.”

Grantaire does. Grantaire makes him behave with his hands and his mouth and the throbbing promise of his dick against Enjolras’s thigh until Enjolras is a shaking, sweaty mess. It hasn’t really been that long since they had sex, but it _feels_ like a long time, and every part of his body is on high alert from the adrenaline of earlier, which makes every touch feel multiplied.

“Wait,” he manages, relaxing his free hand just enough that Grantaire can look up from the nipple he’s been biting and sucking for the past ten minutes. It is very, very hard and very, very swollen and Enjolras just wants to push him down there again. “Wait.”

“For anything in particular?” Grantaire asks, raising his eyebrows when Enjolras can’t string any more words together.

Enjolras nods. Forgets. Remembers. Nods again. “I want, wanted to make _you_ feel good.”

“Fuck, E,” Grantaire laughs. “You already are.”

“No, but. Last time.” Enjolras should have tried this protest when he was more coherent, he really should.

“Oh,” Grantaire says and pushes up onto his forearms. He’s sweaty too, and flushed, and Enjolras _needs_ him. “Yeah, last time was fucked up, but you don’t have anything to make up for, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Enjolras really, really does. He begged Grantaire for sex that neither of them was into and he knows that he made Grantaire feel bad, even if Grantaire will never admit it. 

“I want to do what you want to do, this time,” he says, rather than what he’s thinking, because Grantaire won’t react well to that. “Anything.”

“Babe, did you miss the part where you’re tied to my bed? We’re already doing exactly what I want to do.”

They’re not. They’re doing all the things that Enjolras enjoys. They _always_ do all the things that Enjolras enjoys.

“I want to do exactly what you want,” Enjolras repeats. “I know what you like to do to me, but what do _you_ like.” Something occurs to him that they’ve never tried. “Do you like to be fucked?”

“Uh,” Grantaire says, making Enjolras certain that the answer is going to be no. “I didn’t think you did that?”

“I have done it,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t do it much, it’s true, because he prefers to be… not lazy, exactly, but his limbs go heavy in bed and it’s more pleasurable for him not to take the lead. “I’m not against it.”

“Oh good, yes, let’s do something you’re ‘not against’,” Grantaire says, rolling his eyes. Then his expression turns thoughtful, calculating, he can clearly read Enjolras like a book and it makes Enjolras feel exposed in a mostly pleasant way. “What if you could lie right there and I fucked myself on you? Would you still only be ‘not against’that?”

Enjolras’s skin tightens, his thighs tremble. “No,” he says, “I’d be wholly _for_ that.”

“Interesting,” Grantaire says, and goes back to his work of covering Enjolras’s chest with bites and kisses.

Breathing heavily, Enjolras twists, trying to push up against Grantaire’s teeth. The movement pulls on the bandana so Enjolras stills immediately. He wants to be tied, and he doesn’t want to risk his beautiful tattoo.

“R,” he breathes. “R. Please.”

Grantaire kisses the centre of his chest then sits up. “I don’t have any weird warming lube, but make yourself comfortable while I grab the regular stuff, okay?”

“Yes, I’m very comfortable,” Enjolras lies, waving his free hand down his body to indicate his general state of desperate arousal. 

Grantaire just smirks.

Grantaire also stands by the foot of the bed, once he’s retrieved the lube, puts one foot up on the mattress and reaches behind himself.

“No!” Enjolras complains, kneejerk. “No, I want to do that.”

“Hmm,” Grantaire hums, eyes closing as he apparently does something to himself that he very much enjoys. 

Enjolras could be doing that.

Enjolras would _like_ to be doing that.

“Grantaire. R. Please.”

They both know that he could be free from the bandana in one quick pull, but that’s not the game, and he’s fairly sure they both know that too.

“You said you didn’t want to do any work,” Grantaire says innocently. He brings his hand forward again for more lube and just the sight of his shiny fingers is too much to take.

“It counts as work if I have to move my hips. I never, ever said I didn’t want to finger you.”

Grantaire’s lips part at that, damp and kiss-swollen. Enjolras presses his advantage.

“Please, R. Please let me finger you.”

Grantaire lets Enjolras finger him. 

He doesn’t let Enjolras roll the condom on himself, but that’s only to be expected.

He also doesn’t let Enjolras help as he reaches back and guides Enjolras inside him, but he does kiss Enjolras throughout the whole process and he does groan like he’s dying at exactly the same moment that Enjolras thinks his own heart might have stopped.

“Fuck,” Grantaire grits out, sitting up in a rush and staring down at Enjolras with wide-blown eyes. It shifts Enjolras somehow even deeper into him and they both gasp. “If I move, are you going to come?”

Enjolras’s mouth is dry. His throat clicks when he swallows. “Possibly. But if you don’t move, I’m going to die.”

“Reasonable,” Grantaure decides and starts to fuck himself, fast and desperate, on Enjolras’s dick.

Enjolras grabs for his hip, his thigh, his waist, feeling muscles move everywhere he touches. He leaves crescent-shaped nail marks behind, dotted across Grantaire’s skin, but it just spurs Grantaire on to move even faster.

“I,” Grantaire gasps, head thrown back. He shifts forward, stares into Enjolras’s eyes, says, “I, _I_ ,” again.

“You what?” Enjolras pants, staving off his orgasm through nothing but hope and willpower.

Instead of answering, Grantaire grabs his own dick and pulls on it hard, loses all his words in a sharp cry as he comes over Enjolras’s chest, and Enjolras doesn’t find out what he wanted to say.

Not that Enjolras is exactly worrying about it, right now. Enjolras isn’t worrying about _anything_ , right now. He feels one hundred percent inside this moment, with Grantaire spasming and shivering around him, and his own orgasm racing through his body.

He’s almost, he’s almost, he’s _so close,_ and then Grantaire starts to move again, screwing himself down even though he must be near overstimulation, until Enjolras rears up, grabs him with both hands, the bandana forgotten, and comes so hard that he whites out. 

His face is buried in Grantaire’s shoulder and Grantaire murmurs nonsense to him, so it doesn’t matter how long it lasts. He knows that he’s safe.

Afterwards, they flop down onto the bed together and Grantaire runs his eyes over Enjolras’s tattoo with a professional air.

“We’re going to have to wash that, when we get up,” he decides. “And it’s time to put on some cream but, congrats, no harm done at all.”

“You wouldn’t have let us do that, if there was any risk of any harm,” Enjolras says confidently. He’s interested to notice that he’s slurring slightly.

“Ugh, don’t make me sound so boring,” Grantaire protests. He kisses Enjolras’s bicep, a few inches above where the tattoo finishes. Then he follows it with another and another, kissing up Enjolras’s arm to his shoulder.

Enjolras shivers and moves lazily against him. He doesn’t think he’s capable of coming again so soon, but it feels good to press his skin to Grantaire’s.

In fact, several things have felt good today. More than have felt good in a long time. 

He realises that he wouldn’t mind if things continued to feel good.

“Grantaire,” he says softly, turning his head so that Grantaire can kiss his neck.

“Mmm?” Grantaire hums, cool breath against overheated skin. 

Enjolras looks towards the sunset lighting the window and thinks _I can be brave_. “I was thinking I might like to try therapy.”

Grantaire goes still. Then he kisses the skin below Enjolras’s ear and asks, “Oh yeah?” in a tone that isn’t entirely nonchalant, but Enjolras appreciates him trying.

“Joly said he could find me someone. I suppose I just need to call him and ask.”

Grantaire props his head up on one arm and uses his other hand to stroke the skin below Enjolras’s collarbone, a casual, gentle sweep that goes back and forth. “Or text him; he won’t care.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t mind phoning.”

“Right,” Grantaire laughs. “I forgot you were a weirdo like that. Want me to fuck off, while you make the call?”

“Hm.” Enjolras stretches in the last of the sunlight, eyes closing. He feels well fucked and warm and _calm_. “Not yet.”

“All right.” Grantaire lies back down beside him, arm sliding across his chest. “Just tell me when.”


	7. Chapter 7

Later, after a nap and a phone call to Joly (which goes smoothly and involves a lot of off-key singing in the background from Bossuet), Enjolras and Grantaire stand in the kitchen, eating reheated pizza and sharing a bottle of chocolate milk that they found in the back of the fridge.

Enjolras feels like a student again. It’s a good feeling.

When they hear keys in the front door, Enjolras has to take a moment to check that he’s decent. It’s borderline, but he is wearing boxers and a sweatshirt, so it will have to do.

There are fast whispers from the doorway and then, “Hello?” Jehan calls cautiously.

“Kitchen!” Grantaire calls back.

Jehan peaks around the door, sees them, and grins. “It’s okay, Courf, they’re dressed.”

“Oh thank god!” Courfeyrac says, appearing behind Jehan and wrapping both arms around Jehan’s waist. “Hi both. Thanks for sending us out for sexile dinner.”

“Welcome,” Grantaire says easily. “Feel free to do the same to us sometime.”

“Courf,” Enjolras says, ignoring all of this, because he’s excited about something, and when he’s excited about something, he’s always told Courfeyrac about it first. “Would you like to see something?”

“Always,” Courfeyrac says, coming forwards, before hesitating. “Unless it has something to do with the sexile? I’ve gone this long without seeing your penis, and I’d like that to continue.”

“It has a little to do with the sexile,” Enjolras admits, before holding out his arm.

Courfeyrac gasps and carefully grabs Enjolras’s hand, turning his arm this way and that. “Oh my god, holy shit,” he says. “Is this _real_?”

“I hope so,” Enjolras says, laughing.

“Holy shit,” Courfeyrac repeats. “Grantaire, I want one.”

“You’ve been saying that for years,” Grantaire says, but he sounds happy. 

Jehan appears as a soft shadow at Courfeyrac’s side. “May I see too?” they ask, then lean their head against Courfeyrac’s shoulder so they can admire the tattoo without asking Enjolras to move his arm. “Oh it really is beautiful, R. I bet you didn’t charge him anything like what it’s worth.”

“Jehan!” Grantaire says, sounding betrayed.

“Wait, you didn’t charge me anything,” Enjolras says, realising. “I haven’t paid you.”

Grantaire waggles his eyebrows. “I think I’ve been _adequately_ repaid,” he says, but there’s something more desperate than hopeful in the way he says it.

“No, no, no, I need to pay you. This is your _work_.” Enjolras can’t believe how consistently terrible he is at taking advantage of Grantaire’s generosity and how consistently Grantaire lets him. “How much would you charge… wait, no, you won’t tell me. Jehan, do you know how much this would have cost me from someone else?”

“Not exactly, but hundreds,” Jehan says, ignoring the frantic slashing motions that Grantaire is making. “You could ask Bahorel, if you want an exact amount.”

“It’s a present,” Grantaire says loudly. “It’s a congrats on quitting your shitty job and I’m proud of you present, now will everyone please shut the fuck up about it?”

Enjolras blinks. 

Jehan blinks.

Courfeyrac tips his head to one side and says, “I wasn’t talking, do I have to shut up too?”

“Yes,” Grantaire mutters. He’s blushing and he isn’t looking anyone in the eye. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

Enjolras isn’t very good at interpersonal relationships or at reading people in a one-to-one scenario, but he’s almost certain he knows what’s going on here. “Hey,” he says, closing the gap between them and touching Grantaire’s shoulder. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a wonderful present. Thank you.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire says miserably, but he tucks his face under Enjolras’s chin, skin burning against Enjolras’s throat, so Enjolras thinks he’s read things right.

Over Grantaire’s shoulder, Courfeyrac is making frantic flaily hand motions at Jehan, an expression of delight on his face.

“I _know_ ,” Jehan whispers, looking almost as happy.

Enjolras has no idea what they’re so pleased about, so he settles for leaning his cheek against Grantaire’s and promising, “It’s all right, I’ll never mention you being generous ever again.”

***

The therapist who Joly finds for Enjolras is a middle-aged, Indian woman who reminds Enjolras strongly of Lamarque, not just in stature but also in her no-nonsense temperament.

She waves Enjolras into a seat, gives him a firm handshake, sets a notepad and pen on her knees and says, “There’s a reason you’ve come to me. Do you know what it is?”

Enjolras blinks. He was rather expecting to get diagnosed with something, even though everyone has repeatedly told him not to expect therapy to be the same as a visit to a doctor about a physical problem.

“Um,” he says then wonders if hesitation tells her something about him. Then he tells himself not to be ridiculous. “My friend, Joly, thinks I have post traumatic stress, although I’m not - ”

She holds up a hand, gently but firmly cutting him off. “I’m not asking you to describe your symptoms yet. I want to know _why_ you’ve come to me. What are you hoping to achieve?”

Oh. “Oh.” That’s harder. “I’d like to feel like myself again,” Enjolras settles on eventually. 

She writes that down. “When did you last feel like yourself?”

“When I was twenty,” Enjolras says, “before… everything.” She does at least know what the _everything_ is, since he had to fill out a lot of paperwork and have a preliminary telephone meeting before the appointment today.

“Do you want to feel exactly like that again?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras. Then, “No.”

She looks up.

Enjolras twists his fingers together, a habit he thinks he might have picked up from Grantaire. “I want to feel confident and passionate like that, but I’d like to be… kinder? More aware of other people’s feelings.”

His therapist smiles at him. “All right,” she says. “Let’s talk about that.”

***

“So?” Grantaire asks, meeting Enjolras outside the therapy building with two reusable mugs. He hands one to Enjolras then leans back against the wall, letting Enjolras just stand still and breathe for a moment.

“Hard,” Enjolras says. He feels more than a little spaced out. He knows where and when he is, but at least half of his mind is stuck four years back in time. “She agreed with the medication Joly prescribed, but she gave me a stronger dose.”

“Cool.” Grantaire nods. “Are you going to take them?”

Enjolras nods too. He knows there’s no shame in any of this; he just wishes he could reliably remember that.

“Are you going to see her again?”

“She told me to take some time to think about it but I do think so, yes.”

Silently, Grantaire holds up his hand and, bemused, Enjolras high fives him. “Therapy buddies,” Grantaire says in all seriousness, before lacing their fingers together so they’re just standing there, in the street, holding hands.

Grantaire must notice that they haven’t done that before at around the same time that Enjolras does, because he clears his throat and relaxes his hand.

Before he can think better of it, Enjolras tightens his grip. “Can we go for a walk?”

Grantaire’s fingers are warm against his. “‘Course,” he says, and they set off towards the Seine.

***

It’s no surprise that Enjolras has nightmares that night. What is a surprise is that he manages to wake himself out of them without disturbing Grantaire.

He thinks briefly about waking him, almost certain that that is what Grantaire would want him to do. But for once, Grantaire is sleeping deeply and peacefully, and he can’t bring himself to do it.

Instead, he slips out of the bedroom and shuffles his way to the kitchen, not confident enough of this space to be sure he won’t trip over something in the dark.

He splashes water on his face, washes his hands and then washes them again. There was blood on them in his dream and he knows that it’s not there now, but he can _feel_ it still. His breathing is uneven, but he isn’t going to have a panic attack, he absolutely isn’t, he’s just going to stand here for a moment or two. Maybe squeeze his eyes shut. Maybe just…

He’s about to give in and sit down on the floor, when someone says, “Hey?” from close beside him.

Enjolras jumps, but it does at least get him breathing again.

“Oh, hey,” Courfeyrac says, in a different tone this time. He puts his hand on Enjolras’s back and rubs a slow circle. “Okay?”

Enjolras nods, swipes cold hands over his face, and straightens up. Courfeyrac looks rumpled in the grey light, dark hair in his eyes and most of his bodyweight leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Did I wake you?” Enjolras asks. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah, I was awake,” says Courfeyrac. “But I heard you moving around, so I came out to check you weren’t a burglar.” He tucks some of Enjolras’s hair behind his ears for him. “Are you a burglar?”

“A burglar with nightmares,” Enjolras admits, which earns him a soft, sympathetic noise and a hug. 

Somehow the sympathy isn’t quite as awful as he’d thought it would be.

“Want to talk about it?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I feel like that’s all I do.” He rubs his eyes, sleep trying to creep back up on him. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

Courfeyrac moves around him, filling two glasses with water and handing one to Enjolras. “Work stuff. Just trying to work out a puzzle.” He turns around, leaning against the sink. “I’m trying to emancipate a twelve year old from his shitty parents and get custody for his eighteen year old sister, so there’s a lot to think about.”

“I didn’t think family law was your thing?” Enjolras asks. Courfeyrac always used to say he had enough problems with his own terrible family and didn’t want to have to deal with it at work too.

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Special circumstances.”

Slowly, Enjolras’s sleep-foggy brain clicks the pieces together. “Oh, is it Gavroche?”

“Confidentiality,” Courfeyrac says. He mimes zipping his lips, then nods meaningfully.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to get involved.”

“We’re not allowed to get involved with the _criminal_ case, on pains of Maman Javert and Papa Valjean having a domestic, but no one said we couldn’t help out in other ways.”

“The idea of Javert being your maman is incredibly creepy,” Enjolras tells him seriously.

Courfeyrac laughs. “Hey, I have a super amazing brilliant idea. Want to come to work with me tomorrow? Ferre and I have a standing lunch date, so if you come to the office about eleven you could meet Valjean and then come and eat with us.”

“Why do I want to meet Valjean?” Enjolras asks, warily. 

“Because he’s awesome!” Courfeyrac swings an arm around Enjolras’s neck. “You’re awesome. He’s awesome. Feuilly’s awesome. _I’m_ awesome. Think what an awesome team we’d make.”

“Courf,” Enjolras says.

Courfeyrac guides him slowly down the hallway, arm still around his neck. “No pressure,” he promises, even though there is definitely pressure. “Come to lunch, even if you don’t want to come to the office. The three of us haven’t hung out together since you got back and that’s just not right.”

“I’d love to come to lunch, if I won’t be in the way.” They’ve reached Grantaire’s bedroom doorway. Enjolras makes the mistake of glancing inside. 

Grantaire is still asleep, but now he’s rolled onto his side towards the door, one arm flung out out across the space that Enjolras would usually occupy. Enjolras feels a pull in his chest like a sharp pain to go and fill that gap.

Beside him, Courfeyrac is having quiet hysterics at the idea of Enjolras being in the way, but he trails off as he apparently notices that Enjolras is distracted.

“Oh Enjolras,” he says in a much softer tone, leaning his chin on Enjolras’s shoulder. “It’s weird, huh?”

“What?” Enjolras blinks. “What’s weird?”

“Realising that you’re falling for a friend.”

Confused, Enjolras turns toward him. “It must be?”

“I’m just saying,” Courfeyrac continues easily. “I have some experience of that so if you, I don’t know, ever wanted to chat…”

It’s too late at night, or possibly too early in the morning, to deal with Courfeyrac being eliptic.

Enjolras stares at him. Eventually he yawns.

Courfeyrac pats him on the shoulder. “Never mind.” He kisses Enjolras’s cheek. “Go back to bed. R’s waiting.”

“R’s sleeping,” Enjolras says, but it’s a token protest. He lets himself be bundled back into the bedroom, then stands for a minute, drinking the water Courfeyrac handed him and watching Grantaire sleep.

From the room next door, he can hear the gentle hum of voices as Courfeyrac goes back to his bed too. He understands that it must have felt strange when Courfeyrac and Jehan fell in love, but what he doesn’t understand is why Courfeyrac thinks that’s relevant to his situation.

He isn’t in love with Grantaire.

Being in love with Grantaire would be incredibly inconvenient.

Grantaire is only sleeping with him and being kind to him, because he feels sorry for him; he wouldn’t want Enjolras’s love.

So it’s a good job that Enjolras doesn’t love him.

Enjolras finishes his water, puts his glass down with a click, and climbs back into bed.

Grantaire doesn’t wake up, just slides both reaching arms around him, pulling him close with a satisfied sigh that ghosts across the thin skin of Enjolras’s ear.

“I’m not in love with you,” Enjolras tells him, but quietly so that Grantaire won’t hear.

Grantaire just continues to breathe softly against the side of his head.

Satisfied, Enjolras rolls over until they’re chest to chest then goes back to sleep.

***

There’s no reason for Enjolras to feel nervous about visiting the offices of Jean Valjean Solicitors today, but stupidly he does.

Their office is based on the ground floor of a communal building, tucked in beside a vegan cafe and a women’s health charity. The front door takes him straight into an open plan workspace, which currently holds three desks, but is certainly large enough for a few more. 

Courfeyrac is on the phone, but he waves frantically when Enjolras comes in, then throws a pen at Feuilly to get his attention.

Feuilly looks up, mock-glares at Courfeyrac, then stands up and walks across the room to Enjolras.

“Good morning!” he says cheerfully, shaking Enjolras’s hand. “Welcome. Courf has not shut up about the fact you were coming all morning.”

“I’m sure I can’t be that exciting,” Enjolras says, briefly distracted by Feuilly’s very strong grip and the way his biceps bulge beneath his thin, black shirt.

Feuilly winks. “Come on, you can meet Valjean while Courf’s busy.”

He leads Enjolras to the back of the room where the third desk sits. The man who stands up to meet him is older than Enjolras expected - certainly older than Javert - with thick, grey hair and a pleasant smile on his face.

“Monsieur Enjolras, I assume,” he says as though it’s a gentle joke they’re both part of.

“Monsieur Valjean?” Enjolras asks and shakes his hand.

Valjean waves him into a visitor’s chair then leans forward, hands clasped together on the desk. “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve heard about you, monsieur.”

Enjolras glances over at Courfeyrac who waves cheerfully back. “I probably would,” he admits. “Courfeyrac can be a little enthusiastic.”

Valjean smiles and doesn’t deny it. “Not only him. I’ve also heard plenty about you from my daughter and, more recently, my husband. They all tell me what a good man you are.”

“No,” Enjolras says immediately then grimaces. “Sorry, sir, but no. that’s… incorrect.”

Valjean hums. “I would say the same thing about myself, but they disagree there too.” Luckily, he moves on before Enjolras can come up with anything to say to that. “So, what is it that I can do for you?”

“Oh, uh, nothing,” says Enjolras, startled. “Courfeyrac wanted me to visit, that’s all. We’re going to lunch in a little while.”

“That’s all?” Valjean echoes. “Not here to ask me for a job?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, sir.”

Valjean sits back and regards Enjolras steadily. “That’s a pity. We’ve been holding a vacancy open for you for the past two years.”

“Sir?” Enjolras frowns. He knows that Courfeyrac wants him to work here, but he didn’t know that it had actually been discussed.

He gets the vague feeling that Valjean is enjoying this conversation, which is nice for him, since Enjolras certainly isn’t. 

“I’m not sure if you know the origins of this company?" Valjean says. "I had a dream to make solicitors more accessible to the poorest members of our society, but I had no law degree. Courfeyrac and Feuilly believed in my cause and joined me, even though there was no guarantee we would be successful. Courfeyrac’s only stipulation on joining was that if you ever resurfaced, he wanted to be able to offer you a job.”

Enjolras blinks. The idea that Courfeyrac was thinking about him, missing him, making plans for his future while Enjolras was hiding from him like a coward…

He looks towards Courfeyrac’s desk only to find that Courfeyrac’s attention is finally, firmly on his call.

“You don’t have to make a decision today,” Valjean says kindly. “Maybe you have other options?”

“I have a friend,” Enjolras says, rather than any of the other many, many thoughts spinning through his head. “Marius Pontmercy. He is looking for work and he’s an excellent lawyer. If you have a vacancy, he’s the ideal candidate.”

Valjean closes his eyes briefly, looking pained. “The same Marius Pontmercy who is attempting to date my daughter?”

“Oh. Uh. Yes.” Enjolras tries to look apologetic.

“Very well,” Valjean sighs and massages the bridge of his nose as if he’s suddenly developed a headache. “Tell him to arrange an appointment with me. Is that your tactful way of turning me down, Monsieur Enjolras?”

“Not… quite.” Enjolras really wishes that he’d been warned that this conversation was going to happen, but it’s just like Courfeyrac to have kept it quiet until there was no way for Enjolras to avoid it. “I’m grateful, honestly, very grateful, and I would be very interested in working for you.”

“But?”

“But I’m…” Enjolras hesitates, wonders how much he wants his prospective future boss to know about him, wonders how much he already knows. “I haven’t been particularly well lately, and I have the luxury of enough savings to be able to take a short break from work. Could I come back to you with an answer in a few weeks?”

For some reason Valjean looks pleased, not as if he’s being messed around by someone he’s only being guilted into hiring. “That’s a very sensible suggestion,” he says. “Take your time.”

***

“So I have news,” Courfeyrac says an hour or so later, after he and Enjolras have met up with Combeferre and they’re all sitting in a warm, dark corner at the back of a small cafe.

“Are you pregnant?” Combeferre asks innocently, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. He’s just come off a twenty-four hour shift and somehow still looks fresher than Enjolras feels.

“Somehow no.” Courfeyrac pouts. “Not for lack of trying.”

“Ew,” says Enjolras and wrinkles his nose delicately.

Courfeyrac beams at him. “Ah, I’ve missed being picked on by you two! No, I’m getting married.” 

Enjolras blinks at him. He turns to Combeferre, who shrugs and goes back to his tea.

“I think we already knew that?” asks Enjolras. His tattoo is starting to heal and it’s reached a point where it’s incredibly itchy all the time, so he’s a little distracted by that.

“I distinctly remember you getting engaged two winters ago,” Combeferre adds. “There was a whole thing with confetti canons.”

“Yes, yes, hush,” Courfeyrac says, then breaks off to offer effusive thanks to the waitress who has brought their lunch over. “That was getting engaged, but now we’re actually going to _get married_. Ferre, Enjolras paid us to go out so he could get laid, and while we were at dinner, Jehan said they wanted to set a date. So we did!”

He looks so helplessly delighted that Enjolras can’t tease him anymore. “When?”

Courfeyrac makes a very, very nonchalant face that fools no one. “Um, next month?”

“ _What?_ ” Combeferre puts down his mug with a clink. “ _Next_ month?”

“The end of! So like, six weeks from now! That’s plenty of time to prepare.” Courfeyrac leans across the table to put one hand over Enjolras’s and the other over Comberre’s. He smiles at them each in turn, something yearningly sincere in his eyes. “We’re not doing much that’s traditional in the ceremony, but I won’t have any family there, and you guys _are_ my family, so I wanted to ask if you’ll, I don’t know, be some combination of my best men and the people who give me away?”

“Oh,” Combeferre says softly. “Yes. Yes, Courf, of course.”

Courfeyrac gives him another of those smiles. Then he squeezes Enjolras’s hand. “Enjolras?”

Enjolras has to swallow very hard, his sinuses suddenly burning. “Are you sure?” he asks, unable to make it come out above a whisper.

“Obviously.” Courfeyrac laughs wetly. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back; I was never going to get married without you there.”

The absolute worst things about the medication Enjolras takes is how many boxes it’s unlocked inside him. Feelings that he used to repress and ignore now rise easily to the surface. He blames that _firmly_ for the fact that he has to use his free hand to wipe tears off his cheeks.

“Of course, then. Of course.” He smiles at Courfeyrac. “I can’t think of anything I’d be more honoured to do.”

***

“So, how was your day, dear?” Grantaire asks in bed that night, kissing his way down Enjolras’s neck.

Enjolras tips his head to one side, giving Grantaire more room. “Eventful,” he says. He sighs when Grantaire’s teeth close together around a thin slice of skin. “R, don’t _bite_.” He very much means _R, do bite_ , and he knows Grantaire knows that.

“Eventful?” Grantaire prompts. He’s kissing gently over the skin just below Enjolras’s collarbone now. For some reason, that seems to be one of his favourite places on Enjolras’s body.

“Mmhmm.” Enjolras slides his fingers into Grantaire’s hair, curls silky against his fingers. “Monsieur Valjean offered me a job.”

Grantaire’s kiss slips and he catches Enjolras's skin with his teeth, less carefully than before. “Sorry. Wow, that’s so cool. Congratulations.”

Enjolras frowns a little, not sure what startled him about that. “And Courfeyrac asked me to be part of his wedding party. I assume you know they’ve set a date?”

Grantaire presses his face into Enjolras’s neck, as if he’s trying to inhale him. “That’s also cool. Jehan asked me to be part of theirs, so we’ll be on like, opposite teams.”

There’s some sort of fake cheer in his voice that Enjolras isn’t sure he would have been able to pick up on before.

“Is everything all right?” he asks. “Did I, I said something wrong, didn’t I?”

Grantaire lifts his head to grin down at him. Grantaire doesn’t grin. He smiles and he smirks but he never grins. “Of course not; don’t be stupid. Hey, do you want a celebratory blowjob?”

“No,” Enjolras says, then at Grantaire’s raised eyebrow relents, “Of course I want a blowjob, but I’d rather know what’s wrong.”

Grantaire makes a twiddly hand motion in the air near his head. “Sometimes things are just wonky in here; you know that. C’mon, shh, let me blow you.”

Enjolras agrees, because of course he agrees. It’s not as if he can say, _I think you’re using your depression as an excuse_ and what evidence does he really have that Grantaire is upset other than a different type of smile? 

He closes his eyes while Grantaire sucks him slowly and gently, fingers stroking Enjolras’s thighs at the same time. “Do you not think I should take the job,” he says, brain still whirring, despite how good Grantaire’s mouth feels. 

Grantaire ignores him, taking Enjolras deeper into his throat so he couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. Which he clearly doesn’t.

“I’d be grateful if you’d tell me,” Enjolras says, trying not to arch into Grantaire’s mouth and only partly succeeding.

“Shh,” Grantaire hums sharply, which feels so good that Enjolras forgets he wants an answer for a while.

He remembers again when Grantaire is back to sucking on his neck and he has Grantaire’s hard, leaking dick in his hand. 

“I value your opinion,” Enjolras says, twisting his wrist. “I value you.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Grantaire hisses. He pulls back, grabs Enjolras’s face in shaking hands and glares at him. “I am trying, I am trying _not_ \- ” He breaks off, a look of sharp pleasure crossing his face. “Oh fuck it,” he says and kisses Enjolras.

He kisses like it’s their only kiss, not one of dozens and dozens: wet and slick and desperate, one hand sliding up into Enjolras’s hair and the other wrapping around Enjolras’s, between his legs.

“Stop. Stop being so, so, so impossible,” he scolds in between biting kisses.

Enjolras has no idea what’s going on, but he’s being kissed and Grantaire’s dick is in both their hands, and it’s not as if he actually enjoys talking about feelings in the first place.

It isn’t until the next morning, that he realises he should have pushed Grantaire harder for an answer.

He wakes up in an empty bed and that’s fine, he thinks. That’s fine. Just because Grantaire is usually a late riser doesn’t mean that he can’t occasionally get up early.

Enjolras tries to take advantage of the space to stretch out and sleep some more, but when he rolls over, he’s met with a small, solid lump and an angry meow.

Lifting the duvet, Enjolras finds two amber eyes glaring at him.

“Sorry,” he says to the cat and gets out of bed.

“Enjolras?” Jehan calls from the living room as soon as Enjolras has opened the bedroom door. “Can you come here, please?”

For all that Enjolras spent a few days slobbing around in borrowed sweats, when he isn’t in the middle of a breakdown, Enjolras doesn’t really like to see people until after he’s showered. However, Jehan sounds unusually stern, so Enjolras does as he’s told.

“Good morning,” he says, surprised to find that Jehan isn’t in the living room, working, but is instead sitting on one of the kitchen counters, drinking from a steaming mug.

“Good morning, I just made tea,” Jehan says and nods toward another mug on the opposite counter.

“What have I done?” Enjolras asks, wrapping his hands around the tea, but waiting for Jehan’s answer before he drinks it.

Jehan sighs, leaning their head back against the mug cupboard. “I was so worried when you came back that you were going to hurt Courf, but you haven’t, you’ve made him so much happier, so thank you for that.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says slowly, since he doesn’t actually think he’s done anything, so _you’re welcome_ would make no sense. “But?”

“But I was also worried you were going to hurt R and you _have_ done that.” Jehan looks sad and disappointed. “Why did you have to do that?”

Enjolras puts his mug down too hard, waiting one wincing moment to see if it’ll break. It doesn’t. “I’ve hurt R?” he demands. “How?”

Jehan narrows their eyes at him. “By telling him you wanted to cool things off with him now that you're getting your life back on track.”

Enjolras’s heart leaps into his throat. “ _When_ did I say that?” He doesn’t want to do that. The idea of doing that is appalling.

“Last night?” Jehan says. “He was so upset this morning, he said that you were doing so much better that you weren’t going to need to lean on him and… Oh I’m going to kill him.”

“And _what_?” Enjolras snaps. “Sorry, sorry, but I never said anything about ending our relationship; I don’t understand.”

Jehan rubs their hands over their face, smearing sparkly silver eyeshadow from their eyelids to their temples. “He made it sound as if you’ve said it, but I see now it was just him being an insecure idiot. Look, sorry I made you angry tea, let me make you an apology coffee while you shower, then you can go downstairs and tell him he’s being stupid. Okay?”

Enjolras’s head is spinning. He knows that Jehan isn’t actually giving him an option; they’re telling him what to do. But that’s fine, since he wants to do it anyway. “May I drink the angry tea while you make the apology coffee?” he asks. He thinks he's going to need it.

Jehan considers this. “That’s acceptable,” they decide. “But you have to drink it in the shower, because Grantaire’s first client is at eleven, so you only have an hour and a half to talk to him.”

“I can shower very quickly when motivated,” Enjolras promises and takes the tea off to do just that.

***

“You made Jehan angry with me,” Enjolras says, one angry tea, one shower, and one apology coffee later. “How could you?”

Grantaire looks up from the desk chair, where he has managed to curl up very small around his drawing tablet, despite his knees spilling off both edges. “Jehan is the size of your thumb, you can’t be scared of them.”

“I can and I am.” Enjolras folds down to sit cross-legged at his feet and looks up at him patiently until Grantaire looks back.

“Why the fuck are you down there?” Grantaire asks but it comes out weakly.

“Why the fuck did you tell Jehan I wanted to break up with you?”

Grantaire laughs, a catch in it that he trips over twice. “How can we break up when we’re not even together? We’re just fucking, right? So it’ll be cool when you want to stop.”

Despite the fact that Enjolras has been telling everyone - most particularly himself - that it’s just sex, hearing Grantaire call it that makes his heart ache. “But I don’t want to stop.”

Grantaire’s hands curl into fists, knuckles turning white. His fingernails must be cutting into his palms. “I cannot,” he says. “I cannot look at you sitting at my _feet_ , with your face doing _that_ , without a drink in my hand.”

Enjolras stands up. “Let’s go for a walk then.”

Grantaire frowns. “I meant ‘so stop it’ not ‘so let’s change the scenery.’”

“Tough.” Enjolras takes the tablet and stylus out of Grantaire’s hands, lays them down carefully on the desk, then puts his hand in Grantaire’s. “You took me to the river when I was feeling overwhelmed the other day, now I’m doing the same for you.”

“Because you’re in love with the fucking river,” Grantaire mutters, but he still shoves his feet into his shoes and lets Enjolras bustle him out of the shop.

“How could anyone not be?” Enjolras waits until they’re on the wider pavement of the main street before linking his arm through Grantaire’s.

Grantaire looks across at him, startled, and stumbles over both his feet and his words. “I, I don’t know,” he manages. “I don’t know how anyone could not be.”

They’re quiet as they make their way to the Seine. That’s unusual for them, Enjolras is realising now; they always have something to say to each other. 

“Let’s sit here,” Enjolras says at last, tugging Grantaire over to a bench where they can look across the river, but be shielded from the morning sun by the tree that hangs over it.

“Picturesque,” Grantaire mutters, although Enjolras can’t tell if he means that as a good thing or not.

Enjolras stretches his legs out in front of himself, thinking about how much more comfortable he is in skinny jeans - even ones borrowed from Courfeyrac - than he ever was in his workday uniform of neatly pressed suits.

“How could you get me in trouble with Jehan?” he asks again, being careful to keep his voice as light as he can make it. 

Grantaire looks away, staring across at the island on the other side of the river. “I only told them the truth.”

Enjolras frowns at that, but no matter how much he stares at him, Grantaire won’t look back. “You told them that I wanted to end things with you. That _isn’t_ the truth.”

Grantaire sighs. “Look,” he says, “I know the only reason you wanted to spend time with me was because I didn’t make you feel guilty like the others did, and I know the only reason you wanted to fuck me is because it distracted you.”

“That’s not…” Enjolras trails off, because it was at least partly true in the beginning, truer than he would like it to be. “That’s not the only reason. That’s not even a tenth of the reason now.”

Grantaire still won’t look at him, but Enjolras is watching him closely and he’s appalled to see the shimmer of unshed tears in his eyes. “Everything’s getting fixed for you now. You’ve got your friends, and therapy, and a new job, you won’t need me to be a distraction much longer.”

“You’re not a distraction,” Enjolras argues, feeling a little sick. Exactly how long has Grantaire thought Enjolras using him? And exactly how was it true for? “I’m sorry. I’m _really_ sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was thinking when we first bumped into each, and you’re right, taking you to bed was a wonderful distraction, but it’s not… it’s not…”

This is what he should have been talking about with his therapist. Never mind post traumatic stress. That way maybe she could have told him how to handle it.

Grantaire reaches out blindly and takes Enjolras’s hand. “It’s all right,” he says. “It’s fine. Don’t sound so beaten up about it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says urgently and then, when Grantaire still won’t turn around. “R. Please.”

Grantaire meets Enjolras’s eyes and smiles softly. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. How lucky am I that I had you at all, even if it wasn’t for very long?”

“Is that, is that why?” Enjolras asks. “You thought I was using you and you were just waiting for me to break up with you, but you still bedded me because you think I'm attractive?”

This time, there’s actual amusement on Grantaire’s face when he laughs, even if it’s a bitter, broken sort. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I said yes because I’ve _always_ wanted you, since the first fucking moment that I saw you.”

Enjolras blinks. “You were drunk the first moment you saw me.” Drunk in a club and in the process of hooking up with Courfeyrac, but it doesn't seem tactful to mention that.

“I was drunk for many of the moments after too,” Grantaire reminds him, “but that doesn’t change the fact that you've been the only person I've really been able to see since I was twenty-two and you were a fluffy-haired eighteen year old.” 

At any other moment of any other day, Enjolras would think this was hyperbole, but he can’t think that while looking at Grantaire’s expression of twisted up happiness and misery.

“You should have told me,” Enjolras says. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t know.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m very bad at avoiding things that will hurt me, but I've tried, I really have, it’s just that I've never been able to move on from you. By now I'm pretty much resigned that I was put on this earth to love you and that no matter how hard I try, that's never going to stop."

Enjolras wants to kiss him more than he’s ever wanted to kiss him before, and Enjolras has wanted to kiss him a _lot_ before. But Grantaire just said _love_ and Enjolras can’t be cavalier with that. No one has ever said it to him before; he desperately wishes that they had, just so he’d know how to respond.

"But… why?" he asks, which is almost certainly not the right thing to say. It’s just so inexplicable. Grantaire is brilliantly clever and wonderfully passionate and Enjolras had honestly thought he was just being kind these last few months.

Grantaire spreads his free hand helplessly. "I don’t know. I suppose it’s because I look at you and I think _yes_. I enjoy everything about you, even the terrible bits. You're stunning and ridiculous and you take yourself too seriously and you care so much and you're so brave."

"Not -"

"Don't you dare say not anymore. You're braver now than you've ever been. It's easy to be brave when you've never been scared, but things are hard for you now and you're still doing them. That's real bravery."

Enjolras’s throat feels thick. “R,” he says. “You shouldn’t, I don’t, I want - ”

His phone chooses that moment to vibrate with a call, cutting him off.

“Fuck,” Enjolras snaps at it, but before he can silence it or throw it in the river, Grantaire’s begins to ring too.

“Who the fuck calls people, it’s the twenty-first century,” Grantaire grumbles, pulling out his phone. “Oh, Jehan.”

Enjolras’s call is from Courfeyrac and it seems to consist of the same message as Grantaire’s, which is, “Come home right now, something awesome as happened.”

“We don’t have to,” Enjolras says, looking at Grantaire as they both tuck their phones away. “I want to finish this conversation.”

“Well I don’t,” Grantaire says firmly and gets to his feet. “Come on, we’ve been saved by the bell, let’s make the most of it.”

Enjolras wants to argue, but the problem is that while he wants to finish the conversation, he doesn’t know what he wants to say. “Fine,” he says, “but later.”

“Much later,” Grantaire says and starts pulling him towards home.

***

Courfeyrac is just letting himself and Feuilly in as they arrive at the apartment, but he won’t tell them what’s happening, ushering them upstairs to where Jehan is already waiting, camped out in the big living area with Combeferre and Bossuet.

Even more confusingly, Cosette is sitting on the sofa, Angel ensconced in her lap, and Marius is hovering awkwardly in the kitchen doorway.

“We were gone less than an hour,” Grantaire says, sounding as baffled as Enjolras feels.

“Are Bahorel and Musichetta and Joly coming?” Courfeyrac asks, ignoring him.

“Joly has patients and ‘Chetta is sleeping off her evening shift,” Bossuet says.

Jehan looks up from their phone. “Bahorel says he can’t stop right now, he’s tattooing a seventy-year-old’s arse.”

“Vital work,” Courfeyrac says solemnly. 

“What’s going on?” Enjolras asks, the anxious parts of his mind immediately conjuring up worst case scenarios.

“Only good things,” Courfeyrac promises. “Awesome things, like I said.”

“Are you pregnant?” Bossuet asks.

Courfeyrac gasps. “Why do people keep asking me that? Why doesn't anyone ask Jehan? Anyway, Cosette, it’s your news, you should share it.”

Cosette looks completely at home in the middle of Enjolras's friends, the cat who is apparently Enjolras's god daughter on her lap.

"I submitted my file on Patron-Minette last week and my boss and my boss's boss just finished reviewing it."

Despite the precariousness of their relationship, Enjolras holds out his hand and finds it instantly taken by Grantaire. 

Cosette smiles. "We have enough evidence to proceed; they're going to trial."

There is an explosion of shouts from every corner of the room, followed immediately by one question after another, everyone tripping over each other in their excitement.

"I wanted to make sure you were the first to know," Cosette laughs. "You've all worked so hard, and you've only sometimes got in my way."

"I'm going to call Eponine," Combeferre says. "She and Gavroche deserve to know."

"Invite them over," Courfeyrac tells him. "It's a party."

"Don't celebrate too soon," Cosette warns him. "This is going to be a long fight and we might not win."

"We'll win," Marius says firmly. "I know it."

"Hey," Grantaire says softly, just for Enjolras to hear. "Okay? You're quiet."

Enjolras turns and looks at him. He's smiling, his whole face lit up. Enjolras always wants him to look like that. Even more ridiculously, Enjolras wants to be the one who makes him look like that

That’s it, he realises, the last jigsaw piece, the last hole in his soul.

"Yes," Enjolras says. "I'm okay. I'm more than okay. But I need to speak to Courfeyrac really quickly. But I'll be back, all right? I'll be back."

Grantaire shakes his head at him. "All right," he says, bemused. "I believe you."

Enjolras squeezes Grantaire's hand once more before letting go, then grabs hold of Courfeyrac and drags him into the kitchen. 

"Um, hello, yes?" Courfeyrac asks. "Where am I going?"

Enjolras closes the door behind them. "You said before about how it's strange to fall in love with a friend."

"I… did," Courfeyrac agrees. Something both knowing and delighted starts to spread across his face. "Oh my god, E, have you had a revelation?"

"How did you _know_ it was love? I never thought it was possible to feel a stronger love than friendship. How did you know?"

"Aw," Courfeyrac says fondly. "Well for me it was all the feelings of friendly love, plus a kind of overwhelming need to put my mouth of theirs."

"Ugh, no, that's no help." Enjolras paces the insubstantial length of the kitchen and back. He already wants to kiss Grantaire all the time. He needs to know that anything else he's feeling isn't also just lust.

"Sorry." Unusually, Courfeyrac actually looks serious. "I did mean that, wanting to kiss Jehan was my first clue but it's like… love is like… fuck, you should have asked them, they're the poet."

"I'm asking you," Enjolras says. "Help me. Please."

Courfeyrac smiles gently. "It feels like you're better and happier when they're around, but it's more than that, you're more yourself then too. Sometimes I think that even if they didn't love me back, if I could just be near them for the rest of my life, I'd be happy." He blushes, a situation so rare it's like Enjolras is seeing one of the damn Otolan birds that started all this.

Enjolras thinks about the other morning, lying in bed and bothering Grantaire while he tried to draw, because all Enjolras wanted was to look at his face, to touch it, to be happy.

He wonders if the reason Grantaire got was flustered was because that was how a person who was in love with him would behave.

"Does that help?" Courfeyrac asks a little plaintively. "Can I go and tell Jehan you made me feel embarrassed, so they'll pet my hair?"

"That did help." Enjolras has a lot to think about. "Can you ask Grantaire to come and see me?"

He might have a lot to think about, but he doesn't want to do it alone. He doesn't want to do anything alone ever again.

"Totally!" Courfeyrac says with a little bounce, like he's also done some thinking and reached his own conclusions. 

"Have you made this your office?" Grantaire asks when he joins Enjolras in the kitchen two minutes later.

"R," Enjolras says and holds out his arms. "Come here."

"Sure, okay, we're hugging now?" Grantaire asks, but he lets Enjolras pull him against his chest and kiss him.

Because he's Grantaire, he suffers Enjolras leading the kiss for ten seconds before he takes over, sighing into Enjolras's mouth and bracketing his hips with his strong hands.

"You didn't ask me what I want," Enjolras says, when he feels they've both been kissed sufficiently. "You just assumed I didn't want anything serious with you."

"Whatever grandiose thing you're about to say, can I convince you not to?" Grantaire asks. He rests his cheek on Enjolras's shoulder. 

"Why?" Enjolras asks, confused. "You told me your feelings, don't you want to know if I return them?"

"I don't want to know if you've convinced yourself you do," Grantaire says. "Or if Courf has convinced you that you did. I saw you drag him in here."

Enjolras pulls back and looks Grantaire in his familiar, beloved face. He remembers what Courfeyrac said about just wanting to be near the person you love and he understands what he meant.

"I think I do," he says. "Love you, that is. I know I could. I think I already do. I know I don't want things to end between us. "

He knew he'd be bad at this and it turns out he was right.

Grantaire watches him closely, as if he's trying to read the truth from Enjolras's face.

"You didn't before? Did you?”

Enjolras feels his shoulders drop. “No. No I’m sorry, I clearly wasn’t paying enough attention before but - ”

“No, shh, it’s a good thing." A small, nervous smile flutters around Grantaire's mouth. "I don’t want to be part of your nostalgia trip, I want this, us, if it’s happening, I want it to be something new. I want _you_ to be in love with me, not the guy you used to be.”

Out in the main area, Enjolras hears their friends shriek with laughter over something. He wants to know what, but he wants to finish this conversation even more.

“Which one of us are you in love with?” he asks.

“Who says I’m in love with you at all?” Grantaire asks, raising his eyebrows.

Enjolras shakes his head at him. “You did, less than an hour ago.” Saying it makes his heart race, which is ridiculous but not unpleasant.

Grantaire's defensive teasing melts away.

“ _You_ , Enjolras," he says, like it's obvious. "You who made some shitty decisions and have nightmares and are terrified because at some point you're going to have to face Thenardier in court. You who are going to do it anyway, because it’s the right thing to do.”

"Oh," Enjolras says. Even he hadn't realised he was anxious about that, but Grantaire is absolutely right. The last time Enjolras stood up and talked in front of a crowd went… badly. Of course that's going to be hard. The fact that Grantaire understands that… "Oh. I actually am in love with you."

Grantaire blinks twice then he swoops in and kisses Enjolras hard enough that his mouth tingles.

Enjolras thinks that it's a sealing of their conversation until Grantaire says, "No, not yet."

"Not… yet?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire lifts one hand from Enjolras's hip so he can rub it through his own hair. He looks frustrated at himself.

Enjolras lets him mess up his hair for a minute before taking his hand and setting it back on his waist, where it belongs.

"R?" he asks.

"You said you thought you could love me," Grantaire says. "Turns out I could cope with that, but you saying that you _do_? That's a bit too much. Sorry."

Enjolras kisses him again. "That's all right, I don't mind. I can pretend to think about it for as long as you need me to."

Probably he _should_ think about it some more, even though once he's made up his mind, he very rarely changes it.

Grantaire's smile starts small then grows and grows. "Fuck, I love you."

Enjolras mines zipping his lips.

Grantaire laughs. "Shut up." 

Outside the kitchen, Combeferre's voice rises above the others with, "Penguins, Marius? Really?" and sets off another round of laughter. 

"Come on," Grantaire says, "we're missing all the fun."

"Can't have that," Enjolras agrees. He holds out his hand and lets Grantaire lead him back to their friends.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: a little cathartic punching, as a treat.

_Six Weeks Later_

“Courfeyrac, will you please keep still?” Enjolras scolds, as Courfeyrac’s head once again moves out of his reach.

“Sorry, sorry.” Courfeyrac sinks back into the chair and smiles winningly up at Enjolras. “I’m excited! It’s my wedding day!”

“Jehan won’t marry you if your hair isn’t pretty,” Combeferre says placidly from the other corner of the hotel room, where he’s borrowed an iron and is smoothing creases out of Courfeyrac’s shirt.

“Lies,” Courfeyrac says, but settles down anyway.

There’s an hour to go before the ceremony starts, but Enjolras has been put in charge of pinning tiny yellow daisies into Courfeyrac’s curls and he’s nervous about it. He wants to get it right.

In the hotel room next door, Joly, Grantaire and Jehan are having a much more relaxed time, judging by the photos Grantaire keeps sending over. Every time Enjolras’s phone pings, Courfeyrac grabs it and sighs longingly.

“I haven’t seen them since last _night_ ,” he says, tracing a finger over a picture of Jehan’s blushing, smiling face. “That’s so long.”

“Decades,” Combeferre agrees.

“Centuries,” Enjolras adds.

Courfeyrac glares at both of them. “Like you didn’t miss R just as much,” he says to Enjolras, before turning his attention on Combeferre. “And _you_ …!”

Combeferre noticeably stiffens. “Me?” he asks warily.

Enjolras looks up at that. He hadn’t known Combeferre was seeing - or was interested in seeing - anyone.

“I know you’re pining,” Courfeyrac says, much more gently than he’d started that sentence.

Combeferre deftly turns the shirt over on the ironing board and gets to work steaming Courfeyrac’s collar. “I’m not pining,” he says firmly. “That would be inappropriate.”

“Wait, who are we talking about?” Enjolras doesn’t often feel left out between the two of them anymore - they work hard not to let him - but right now, he’s definitely out of a loop.

Combeferre sighs. “Eponine. I told Courfeyrac that I admire her resilience, and he’s decided that means that I have designs on her, romantically.”

“Only because you have designs on her, romantically.” Courfeyrac smiles winningly at him. “I’m not saying ask her out right now. In fact, _don’t_ ask her out right now, when she’s dependent on you for a roof over her head, but also, like, you _like_ her and that’s chill, that’s nice, that’s allowed.”

“And what exactly can I offer her? I’m a boring, workaholic, five years her senior.” Combeferre actually sounds a little upset, which makes Enjolras assume Courfeyrac will drop this. The fact that he doesn’t means he thinks this is important.

“Um, you’re gorgeous?” Courfeyrac says, lifting his fingers to count attributes. “You’re a doctor, so you’re rich _and_ clever, and you’re not a creep, which makes you better than all the other men in her life. Besides - ” His expression goes dreamy again. “ - Jehan is four years older than me, and look where we are! Actually, that must mean that R is four years older than Enjolras. See? It’s fate.”

“Nearer five,” Enjolras says helpfully, since Grantaire is a little older than Jehan and he’s a little younger than Courfeyrac.

“Fate!” Courfeyrac says happily. He reaches out and waves a hand at Combeferre until Combeferre puts down the iron and comes close enough to take it. “Sorry, Ferre, but I just want you to be happy. Please don’t dismiss it out of hand.”

Combeferre’s defensiveness melts away and he smiles back, just slightly. “I won’t dismiss it out of hand,” he promises. 

“Yay!” Courfeyrac keeps hold of Combeferre’s hand then reaches up and takes Enjolras’s too. “Oh, this is so nice. I’m so happy. What a lovely day.”

Enjolras feels a burst of fondness explode in his chest. “And the best part hasn’t even happened yet,” he teases.

“And, as our Fearless Leader says, the best part hasn’t even happened yet,” Courfeyrac agrees, smile wide enough that they can see his back teeth. 

The smile flickers on Enjolras’s face. He tries to keep it up, he really does, but he knows it’s gone brittle and sad at the edges.

“What’s wrong?” Combeferre asks gently.

Enjolras carefully frees his hand from Courfeyrac’s and goes back to the flowers. “Nothing’s wrong, only a point of order: I’m not your Fearless Leader.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre share a frown. “Wait, what?” Courfeyrac asks. “Yes, you are? You always have been?”

Enjolras sighs. “Courf, come on. I can’t be the leader, fearless or otherwise, when I’m not even a member of the group anymore.”

Courfeyrac blinks at him.

Combeferre’s frown deepens.

“Of course you are,” Combeferre says, while Courfeyrac nods enthusiastically. “Enjolras, what on Earth?”

Enjolras desperately wishes he hadn’t said anything, but he’s trying to get better about… well, everything, and this is one of the things that has been bothering him. 

His therapist is going to be so proud of him for mentioning it, even if he rather hates her now for giving him the tools to do so.

“I left,” he says haltingly, “so of course I stopped being a member. Only, since I’ve been back, well, Cosette and Marius and Eponine and Gavroche have all been invited to join and I, uh…”

“Haven’t?” Courfeyrac fills in for him. He stands up as fast as he can, leaning his weight on the back of the chair in lieu of his cane, which Gavroche stole a while ago to ‘decorate’.

Enjolras feels his cheeks heat. "Yes."

Courfeyrac smacks his arm. "Oh, you idiot. Ferre, did you know how much of an idiot this man is?"

"If I'd known, I would have done something about it earlier," Combeferre says. He moves over to where his jacket is hanging from the back of a chair and starts to pat the pockets.

Enjolras frowns, watching as Combeferre pulls out a pen and a safety pin then goes to the desk in the corner and the pad of paper sitting there.

"Ooh, what are you doing?" Courfeyrac asks and joins him.

Combeferre writes something on the paper then looks up at Courfeyrac, eyebrows raised.

Courfeyrac takes the pen from him and adds something else.

They look at each other again and nod. 

"Enjolras," Combeferre says. "Come here, please."

Not sure what's happening, but certain it won't be anything unkind, Enjolras obeys.

Courfeyrac waits while Combeferre slides the safety pin through the paper then takes it from him.

"Here," he says, "silly goose." He pins the paper onto the front of Enjolras's shirt, kisses his cheek, and steps back.

Enjolras looks down and can't suppress a surprised gasp of laughter. 

On a piece of plain paper that's been ripped to roughly the size of a small name tag, Combeferre has written, _Member of Les Amis de l'ABC._

Added to the beginning in Courfeyrac's elegant handwriting is a little arrow and an amendment so the whole label becomes:

_Life Member of Les Amis de l'ABC_.

Enjolras touches it, laughing again and trying not to get choked up.

"Really?" he asks.

"Duh," says Courfeyrac.

"Of course," Combeferre says.

Enjolras flattens his hand over his chest, label and all, and smiles at them both. "I'm keeping this on all day."

"You'd better," Combeferre says and kisses his other cheek.

***

Forty five minutes later, they're neat, dressed and Courfeyrac can't sit still anymore, so they go downstairs to the small garden where the wedding is taking place.

Despite the huge number of people who Courfeyrac has cheerfully invited to the reception, the ceremony itself is going to be small.

Jehan has parents and two sisters, who are all coming, but none of Courfeyrac's family have spoken to him for years. So almost everyone here is either a member of l'ABC or closely associated with them.

Bahorel meets them as soon as they step out of the hotel, arms folded and one eyebrow raised.

"Invitations?" he asks.

Courfeyrac widens his eyes. "Oh no, I lost mine." He flutters his eyelashes. “Is there anything I can do to _persuade_ you, Monsieur Tall, Muscular Bouncer Man?”

Bahorel holds a straight face for half a second then grins. “Get the fuck outside and get married already.”

“Oh I plan to,” Courfeyrac says, bouncing a little from his place between Combeferre and Enjolras, one arm linked through each of theirs. “Have you seen… Oh good, Gavroche!” He raises his voice as Gavroche goes whizzing past, some sort of wheels hidden in his sneakers. “Gav! Get back here, please.”

Gavroche comes to an abrupt halt, falls over onto his arse, then rolls upright smoothly and glides over to a complete stop in front of Courfeyrac, smiling innocently. “Hello.”

Courfeyrac holds out his hands. “Cane please, child.”

Gavroche makes a _tada!_ motion and produces Courfeyrac’s cane from down the back of his shirt. Enjolras doesn’t like to think about where the end must have been, and from his expression neither does Courfeyrac.

“Cane here, old man,” he says and hands it over.

Courfeyrac takes the cane, turning it over and examining it with a grin. “This is… wow.”

The cane is a dark cherry red, which someone has now drawn all over in a sparkling gold pen. There are top hats and bells, champagne flutes and tiny flowers, all the sort of heterocentric things that a twelve year old might associate with a wedding.

“I love it,” Courfeyrac says, then bops Gavroche on each shoulder with it as if he’s knighting him.

Gavroche bites his lip and looks down at the floor, obviously trying not to look too pleased.

“There you are!” Eponine shouts, arriving with a clomp of heels and grabbing Gavroche’s arm. “Did you give it back? I told you you can’t just take the things that people need like that.”

“It’s fine, I said he could,” says Courfeyrac and doffs an imaginary hat. “Hello, Eponine, you look pretty. Doesn’t she look pretty, Ferre?”

“I’ve already told her that she looks very nice,” says poor Combeferre, looking resolutely somewhere that’s equidistant between Eponine and Courfeyrac but not directly at either of them.

Under his beard there’s a definite flush to his cheeks.

"They should get married," Courfeyrac whispers in Enjolras's ear. "Speaking of, is it time for me to get married yet?"

He takes Enjolras's arm, lifting it so that he can check Enjolras's watch. 

"Ten minutes," Enjolras says, looking at the dial along with him.

"Ugh, that's forever. Are you sure your watch is right? Looks like cheap tat to me…"

Considering it’s the same one Courfeyrac and Combeferre bought it for him, and Enjolras knows it is nothing of the sort, he doesn't answer.

At least, he's not going to answer. Then he glances over Courfeyrac's shoulder and sees first Grantaire and then Jehan step out into the garden.

Jehan catches his eye and raises a finger to their lips, so it turns out that Enjolras does have to answer, after all.

"You're right," he agrees solemnly. "The people who gave it to me are notoriously tight fisted."

Courfeyrac gasps, successfully distracted, and pretends to try to steal the watch from Enjolras's wrist. Considering that Enjolras now wears it very loosely so as not to rub his still-fresh tattoo, he might even manage it.

He slaps Courfeyrac's hand away. "Taking my watch isn't going to make time go faster."

Courfeyrac makes a whining noise and flops against Enjolras's shoulder. "But I just want to get _married_ already."

"Well, if you're in that much of a hurry, we could start now," Jehan says softly from just behind Courfeyrac, the smile in their voice matching the one on their face.

Courfeyrac straightens up at warp speed, spinning around, while Enjolras steps back, distraction successfully accomplished.

He feels Grantaire's arm wrap around his waist, before he even registers that Grantaire is there.

"Hey," Grantaire says and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"Hey," Enjolras says back and turns his head for a proper kiss. He might not be as clingy as Courfeyrac but he still hasn't seen Grantaire since yesterday and he has missed him, even if that would be far too embarrassing to say so out loud.

"Oh, wow," Courfeyrac is saying to Jehan, sounding stunned out of his usual effusiveness and straight into sincerity. "Oh, wow, you're beautiful."

Jehan laughs and wrinkles their nose at him, which does nothing to hide the fact that they do, indeed, look beautiful.

There's no dress code for this wedding, which is why everyone's outfits range from Eponine in a killer red evening dress to Bahorel in a checked shirt and artistically ripped jeans.

Enjolras and Combeferre are in suits, while Courfeyrac has a shirt and suit jacket but tight blue skinny jeans and no tie. He hadn't wanted to feel like he was at one of his parents' stuffy dinner parties, he'd confided earlier.

Jehan's side of the wedding party, in as much as there are sides, are Grantaire and Joly, both of whom have been even more liberally adorned with flowers than Courfeyrac's. Considering Enjolras has flowers in his hair and tickling the back of his neck from his plait, and that Combeferre even has some in his beard, that is saying something.

Jehan, carrying on the theme, looks radiant in a wedding dress the colour of their skin that's embroidered so heavily with flowers that they look like a walking garden.

Their long, red hair is piled up on top of their head, revealing tiny vines and leaves which are painted from the nape of their neck, down their back, shoulders, arms, and all the way to their fingertips.

"No wonder you needed all night to do all that," Enjolras murmurs to Grantaire, impressed.

Grantaire laughs in his ear. "Nah, it wasn't as much work as it looks." Which means it was and he's being modest "We spent the night watching horror movies and eating Haribo."

"Hm," says Enjolras. "All night? You stopped texting me around midnight."

"Yeah, okay, not all night. We were going to stay up, but we fell asleep.” Grantaire tucks his chin into Enjolras's shoulder. "We're so old."

"Hm," says Enjolras again then, carefully. "Well, _you_ are."

"Oh my god, rude!" Grantaire gasps, but he's laughing, which was Enjolras's aim.

He's never been very good at teasing. It wasn't a skill he needed so he never learnt, but Grantaire likes to be teased, so Enjolras is learning now, for him.

He'd tackle much more difficult challenges for the reward of Grantaire's laughter.

"So," Jehan says, once it becomes clear that Courfeyrac isn't going to stop staring at them any time soon. "Shall we?"

Courfeyrac nods. Then he nods again. Once again, Enjolras feels a pang that he wasn't there to watch the two of them fall in love. Judging by this, it would have been hilarious. 

Still, he's here today, and he can be happy about that.

"Courf." Jehan takes Courfeyrac's hand and gently leads him toward the corner of the garden where the chairs are set up. "Let's get married now."

And they do.

It's short and simple, because Jehan didn't want any fuss, and ridiculously romantic, because Courfeyrac can only be reined in so far.

The chairs are arranged in a semicircle, just enough people there to fill two rows, so there aren't any places of honour, just all the guests mixed in together.

Still, Jehan's parents sit on one side of the aisle, directly in line with the celebrant, and Monsieur Valjean and Inspector Javert sit on the other, which Enjolras thinks might be at least a little deliberate. 

"Are you crying?" Grantaire whispers, while Enjolras tries to subtly mop his eyes with his sleeve.

"No," Enjolras lies. "Are you?"

"Oh, absolutely," says Grantaire and sniffs obnoxiously in his ear.

Around them, everyone else is in a similar state, including Marius who has only known Courfeyrac and Jehan for a little over a month. Cosette might be the only person in this whole garden not crying, although she is holding Marius's hand so tightly that his fingers have gone white.

He looks delighted.

"... and I now pronounce you married," concludes the celebrant, making everyone cheer so loudly that they almost drown them out.

"Can we kiss?" Courfeyrac asks hopefully.

"Yes," Jehan says and kisses him before the celebrant can give their opinion.

It's quite a kiss. It goes on.

And on.

Enjolras swallows down a grin and glances at Grantaire, who raises his eyebrows then wolf whistles loudly.

Blushing, they pull apart. Well, Courfeyrac is blushing. Jehan looks as relaxed as Enjolras has ever seen them.

The first round of hugs and handshakes go to Jehan's parents and to Inspector Javert and Monsieur Valjean, but as soon as Courfeyrac is free, he launches himself at Enjolras. 

"I'm married," he says into Enjolras's ear. "I'm married and you're here. This is the best day."

Usually, Enjolras gently detaches himself from too much public affection, but today, he hugs Courfeyrac back just as hard, saying, "Congratulations," and, "I’m so glad I’m here," in an honest, fierce whisper.

***

The wedding breakfast is a picnic by the side of the hotel's river. Enjolras shares a blanket with Grantaire and Combeferre, making his way through a very fancy basket of treats and enjoying the sun on his face.

He is just considering whether it would be acceptable to have a brief nap, when Grantaire clears his throat and Enjolras opens his eyes to find that Monsieur Valjean has joined them.

"Oh, sir!" he says, sitting up straight and trying to look business-like and alert.

"Lovely to see you, Monsieur Enjolras," Valjean says, with a nod to the others. 

Enjolras wonders if he knows them. Probably, since everyone here is connected by years of history that he is still only partly through discovering. With the sound of Courfeyrac's laughter from a neighbouring blanket, Combeferre's knee against his, and his fingertips overlapping with Grantaire's that thought feels less self-flagellating than usual.

"I'm sorry I haven't come back to you about the job offer," Enjolras says, since it's been playing on his mind.

"That's fine, we agreed a month," says Valjean, somehow managing to make it clear that he knows it's been longer than that, but without making Enjolras feel bad about it. "Do you have an answer now?"

Enjolras takes a deep breath, slides his hand a little more firmly over Grantaire's, and says, "Yes. Uh, yes, please, I'd be honoured to work for you."

That's not even flattery. He's been unofficially helping Marius with Gavroche's emancipation for the last few weeks; he knows what good work they do.

"Fantastic. Pleased to have you on board," says Valjean and offers his hand for Enjolras to shake.

Enjolras hears a cheer and finds Feiully and Marius giving him thumbs ups from under the shade of a nearby tree. Beside them, Cosette beams at him.

Valjean laughs softly. "Well it appears your new colleagues are pleased. I'll see you at the office on Monday?"

"Yes," Enjolras says. "Thank you."

As soon as Valjean leaves them, Grantaire laces their fingers together and asks, "All right?"

Enjolras drags in a breath he'd forgotten to take and nods. "Yes. That was the right decision," he says, meaning it.

Then he remembers how Grantaire reacted the first time Enjolras was offered this job and turns fully toward him.

"Are _you_ all right?"

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Anyone would think I struggled with my self esteem." His expression grows more serious. "Yes, I'm fine. Promise."

Enjolras kisses him, because he still isn't allowed to say _I love you_ , and he can't think of another way to answer him.

"I'm fine too," Combeferre says dryly, which makes them break away from each other, both laughing.

"Aw, Ferre," Grantaire teases. "Do you want a kiss too?"

"Almost never," says Combeferre and winks at him. 

“Mm,” Grantaire hums, leaning back on the hand not holding Enjolras’s. “I’ve heard a rumour about who you might like to kiss. Enjolras, have you heard that rumour too?”

“I have heard that rumour,” Enjolras agrees solemnly. 

“I don’t know why I agreed to sit with you both,” Combeferre says. He tries to look stern but it’s made mostly ridiculously by the flowers starting to wilt in his hair. “I should have sat with… I don’t know… Eponine?”

He catches Enjolras’s eye, something uncertain in his expression that Enjolras very rarely sees. Combeferre is almost always certain about everything. Except, apparently, about this one thing.

“You should have sat with Eponine,” Enjolras agrees. “In fact, why don’t you?” He nods to where Eponine is sitting at the edge of the river, keeping a beady eye on Gavroche who has taken off his shoes to paddle in the shallows.

“Do you think so?” Combeferre asks. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Grantaire finishes the last of the little fruit tarts from their picnic basket then lies back, head in Enjolras’s lap. “Go for it,” he says, waving Combeferre on. “It’s hard to be a newbie to all this chaos; go and make sure she’s not lonely.”

“Right.” Combeferre sets first his shoulders and then his jaw. “I could do that.” He stands up. “I’m going to do that.”

Enjolras nods to him. “Godspeed.”

“Do it for France,” Grantaire adds, helpfully, from Enjolras’s lap.

They both watch as Combeferre walks across the grass to the river and stops a respectable distance away from Eponine. When she doesn’t immediately notice him, he clears his throat.

Eponine never lets herself be particularly expressive, but even from this distance, Enjolras is certain that he sees a smile flicker across her face. She says something, Combeferre responds, and a minute later they’re sitting side by side on the riverbank.

“Aw,” Grantaire coos. “That’s nice.”

“Very,” Enjolras agrees. “It isn’t pleasant to like someone while worrying that they don’t like you back.”

Grantaire tips his head back to look Enjolras in the eye, then tips it a little further, apparently to make a point. “No shit? You don’t say?” 

Enjolras flushes. “I like you back.”

“Hm.” Grantaire takes Enjolras hands and folds them comfortably against his chest. “So you say.”

“I do say!” Enjolras protests. He knows Grantaire doesn’t mean it; if Grantaire meant it, he wouldn’t say it, but he can’t help leaning forwards until his shadow falls across Grantaire’s face and says firmly, “I do say. I’d say a lot more, if you’d let me.”

Grantaire stares up at him, blue eyes serious for once. “We are at a wedding and everything is as romantic as fuck, so I might let you say it later.”

Enjolras curls forward to kiss him. It’s difficult upside down - he doesn’t know how Spider-man manages it - but they succeed.

***

As dusk starts to fall, the picnic blankets are cleared toward one side of the garden and a large space is made for dancing. Soft, white fairy lights sparkle down from the trees and a string quartet set up near the side of the hotel.

“Swanky,” Grantaire mutters, as he and Enjolras and, in fact, all of the amis, get in the way of the hotel workers by trying to help them rearrange.

The evening guests are starting to arrive now and soon the little garden is filled with people who Enjolras knows and people he doesn’t know, everyone laughing and dancing and taking pictures.

It’s exactly as joyful a wedding as Enjolras would have expected Courfeyrac to have, and a wave of what feels like preemptive melancholy washes over him that he might have missed this.

“None of that,” Grantaire says, apparently reading his mind. “Hey, look, there’s a newlywed heading our way, that’ll distract you.”

“Hide me,” Jehan says, laughing, and ducking behind Grantaire. “Courf is trying to make me do a first dance.”

“People are already dancing,” Grantaire says, obligingly standing on tiptoes to hide Jehan a little better.

“I know, this will be our third first dance, but I’m going on strike. I don’t have the shoes for this.”

“You’re not wearing any shoes,” Enjolras points out, glancing down at their bare feet. 

Jehan spins away from the protection of Grantaire’s back and into Enjolras’s arms. “A very good point,” they say happily. If there were alcohol at this wedding, Enjolras would say they were a little drunk, but they can’t be, so this must be what being married does to a person.

“Are you having a good time?” Enjolras asks, the answer suddenly very important to him.  
Jehan smiles at him. “Of course. This is such a lovely day.” They seem to realise then that Enjolras is serious because their smile turns gentle. “Enjolras, I think you should dance with me.”

“I… should?” Enjolras asks warily. He glances at Grantaire who nods encouragingly. “I thought you weren’t wearing the right shoes for dancing.”

“Good try,” Jehan says before taking him by the hand and leading him into the small throng of people, all of whom seem to be doing different dances, even the ones dancing together.

“Are you… You don’t have to,” Enjolras says, no idea why he’s nervous about this.

Jehan drapes their arms over Enjolras’s shoulders, seeming to be waiting for something. After a moment they sigh, grab Enjolras’s hands and place them firmly on their hips, before resuming their previous position.

“I’m not going to bite you,” Jehan says. “We made up, didn’t we? You know I’m not cross anymore?”

Oh, Enjolras realises. That’s it. He’s still at least partly worried that Jehan is going to give him some kind of uncomfortable home truth and make him acknowledge his failings. Again.

"I do know that," Enjolras says, feeling as if it's safe to risk a half-lie, since it is only a half one. Realising something ten seconds earlier counts as knowing it, he's sure.

"Good." Jehan turns out to be good at dancing, which is a relief since Enjolras demonstratively is not. They don't appear to be leading, but they still very much are. After one song ends and merges into the next, Jehan sighs and lays their head on Enjolras's shoulder. "I'm ever so pleased you've come back, you know."

Enjolras misses a step even though he couldn't have said what step it was. "You are?" he asks. "Because Courfeyrac wouldn't let you get married until I did?"

"No!" Jehan makes him do some kind of fancy turn, probably in retaliation. "Because I missed you too. Although - " Their soft voice doesn't change, still barely audible over the music, but Enjolras somehow knows to brace himself. " - now would be a good time to promise me that you're never going to run away again."

"All right." Enjolras nods. "I'm fairly certain I can do that."

"Good," says Jehan again. "Because now two of the people I love most in the world would be devastated if you left them, and I'm not sure I could be forgiving the second time."

"Oh," says Enjolras, suddenly realising what's going on here. He finds himself smiling, feeling ridiculously delighted for some reason. "Is this what's known as a 'shovel talk'?"

"I love it when you talk like an old man who has no concept of modern slang," says Jehan, apparently genuinely. "And yes, sweetheart, this is a shovel talk. Did I do okay? Was I scary?"

"You were scary," Enjolras promises since he does, genuinely, consider Jehan terrifying when they want to be.

Jehan pulls back far enough that Enjolras can see they're beaming at him. "Excellent." They squeeze both his shoulders. "Now, your turn."

"My turn?"

"For the shovel talk. Come on. You didn't get to do it when Courf and I actually got together, so it's long overdue."

"Oh, um." Enjolras fumbles around. He wants to ask if it's really his place to warn anyone else not to hurt Courfeyrac, but he's trying to do better about the self-recrimination, these days. "Um. All right. Don't break Courfeyrac's heart."

"I won't," Jehan promises gravely.

"And... don't do anything else... that would upset him, either." Wow, Enjolras is terrible at this. He'll have to practice, in case Combeferre and Eponine do end up getting together. Maybe he could try it on Cosette. Someone needs to protect Marius's far-too-open heart.

"I promise to do my best not to," Jehan says, still seriously, still almost probably not laughing at him. 

Enjolras nods.

Jehan nods back.

"All right," Enjolras says. "Good."

"What's this? What's this?" Courfeyrac sings from behind him, appearing in time to sling one arm around Enjolras and one around Jehan. "Neither of you would dance with me, but you'll dance with each other. Is my spouse cheating on me already?"

"Yes, we're going to elope, didn't they tell you?" Enjolras asks dryly.

"Gasp," Courfeyrac says. He actually says it, rather than just gasping. "Like a dagger to my spleen. Do I still have a spleen?"

"You still have a spleen," Jehan tells him, turning to press a delicate kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Why don't you two dance together now? I need to take off these shoes."

They slip out from between Courfeyrac and Enjolras so that the two of them fall into a natural sort of dance shape. Courfeyrac catches Enjolras's eye and shrugs, so Enjolras thinks he might as well go with it.

"Are you leading?" Courfeyrac asks. "Because I only remember about three steps from those terrible dance classes our parents forced us to."

"I think I remember less than that," Enjolras says, so rather than actually dancing, they just settle for swaying to the music while chatting. It's nice.

Idly, Enjolras watches Jehan making their way across the dance floor and sinking down into a chair beside Grantaire, accepting a cigarette that he holds out to them.

"They still aren't wearing any shoes," Enjolras realises aloud.

Courfeyrac laughs. "Nope. They have no problem lying to get what they want." He sounds very very fond about it.

"And what they wanted was for us to dance together?"

"Probably just for us to hang out in whatever form." Courfeyrac manages to get them both to swerve so they don't bang straight into another dancing couple. After a second, Enjolras realises that it was Monsieur Valjean and Inspector Javert.

"Should you be dancing?" Enjolras realises belatedly. "Your leg?" He can't even see any sign of Courfeyrac's walking stick.

"I'm allowed to dance today! Jehan and I talked about it. Like, I'm probably going to be in agony tomorrow, but sometimes you have to balance things out, and I think dancing on my wedding day is worth the pain."

Enjolras feels as if he should argue against that logic, on the grounds of not wanting Courfeyrac to be in pain at all, but he's not sure he has the right. It's Courfeyrac's pain and Courfeyrac's disability, so really it should also be Courfeyrac's choice.

"Ah, it'll be fine," Courfeyrac promises. "There's a reason we've left a week between the wedding and the honeymoon; I can dance the night away and maybe even have some very careful sex and still be fine for London next weekend."

"Are you excited?" 

"About the sex?" Courfeyrac asks innocently. "Always."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "About London." 

"Yes," Courfeyrac says, bouncing. "I've married a person who can speak fluent English, so I'm a genius and very well prepared."

“Obviously that’s the only reason you married them,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes.

“Obviously.” Courfeyrac takes Enjolras’s hand and spins him around, so Enjolras has to do the same to him, meaning they lose track of their conversation.

"Um, Enjolras?" Marius's voice says from Enjolras's shoulder, breaking through the silliness and laughter. Enjolras turns to him, surprised. 

"Hello. You don't want to dance, do you?"

Marius blushes but not quite as darkly as Enjolras would have expected. Mostly, he looks quite pale. "Um," he says again. "Can I borrow you? There's someone... um..." He glances at Courfeyrac. "Nothing to worry about! Don't worry!"

"I wasn't worrying until you said that," Courfeyrac says, in the gentle tone he uses with Marius, like Marius is a very nervous toddler. “There’s someone who’s what? Ooh do we have a gatecrasher? I feel so popular.”

Marius’s eyes flick to Enjolras. It’s the sort of look he used to give Enjolras before something terrible happened at their old workplace, which gives Enjolras an ominous feeling.

“Why don’t you wait here,” he says to Courfeyrac. “I’ll sort it out. Best man’s prerogative, I’m sure.” Courfeyrac looks torn, so Enjolras goes in for the kill. “I bet Jehan misses you.”

“It’s been twenty minutes,” Courfeyrac says, but his eyes do flick longingly to where Jehan and Grantaire are still sitting. “Fine. _Fine_. But if there’s an actual problem, come and get me.”

“Of course,” Enjorlas lies, and follows Marius off the dance area and over to the dense crop of trees lining the far side of the secluded area the hotel has put aside for them. “What is it?”

“Thenardier,” Marius murmurs. “He was wandering through the guests, helping himself to refreshments. I told him he shouldn’t be here, but he said he would only leave if he could talk to you first.”

Enjolras manages by dint of being very stubborn, not to trip over his own feet or to give into the sudden weakening of his knees. He isn’t scared of _Thenardier_ ; Thenardier is just a bully.

“It was brave of you to confront him,” he manages.

Marius shrugs, but he looks bashful. “Well. It’s Courf and Jehan’s wedding. They’ve been nice to me, I didn’t want anything to get spoiled. I told Eponine and Gavroche to stay out of sight before I came for you; Cosette too, though I doubt she’ll listen.”

He’s glancing nervously at the treeline, so Enjolras pulls him to a stop. “Look, let me talk to him alone. You go back and make sure Cosette doesn’t do anything heroic.”

“But what about you?” Marius rings his hands. “Doesn’t he want to kill you?”

“Probably not actually.” Enjolras is only half convinced about that, but all of his friends are here. If talking to Thenardier will keep them safe, then of course he’ll do it. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, then send along reinforcements. How’s that?”

“Terrible,” Marius says, but he lets Enjolras go on alone, which is all that really matters.

Thenardier doesn’t do anything helpful like step out into the open to meet him. No, he makes Enjolras walk all the way into the centre of the copse, where the trees are thickest and the sunlight penetrates the least.

Then he pushes aside a few branches and leans back against a tree trunk, smiling nastily.

“Monsieur Enjolras,” he says, the gold in his front tooth glinting dully in the faint light. “Having a good day?”

He’s dressed up for the wedding in a suit which is on the flashy side of ostentatious, the kind of thing that would have stood out like a sore thumb if Courfeyrac were having the sort of expensive society wedding that his family should have thrown for him, but apparently wasn’t enough to have him noticed by anyone but Marius at this wedding.

“What do you want, Thenardier?” Enjolras asks, suddenly finding that he has no interest in prevaricating. The trees feel as if they would quite like to start closing in around him, but he’s ruthlessly ignoring that.

“You’ve got some things of mine,” Thenardier says. “Files and the like. Emails. All stolen from me.”

Enjolras forces himself to laugh. “You can’t seriously think I still have those. They’re with the police.”

Thenardier hums. “So I’ve heard. I’ve also heard you’re planning to give evidence against me. I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

He shakes his sleeve slightly and something small and sharply pointed slides down into his hands. It’s so incongruous that it takes a moment for Enjolras to realise that he really is looking at a knife.

“Yes.” Thenardier doesn’t move from the tree, but the whole world has lurched so it feels as if he’s closer. “I really would prefer if you didn’t.”

He starts picking his nails with the end of the knife, which is disgusting enough that Enjolras is able to take a deep breath in.

“Or what?”

Thenardier smiles. “Lovely wedding this,” he says, instead of answering. “I reckon I know the groom. Shot him with paint a while back, didn’t I? And, if I’m remembering right, didn’t I get him shot with something else even longer ago?”

_Courfeyrac gasped, head lolling to one side. He sounded far away..._ _“...Hey, don’t… don’t look like…”_

Now Thenardier does step forward. Enjolras no longer cares about the knife, because he can’t see it. He can see Courfeyrac lying on the ground, an ever growing pool spreading out beneath him.

_“...Yeah, I’ve, I’ve always wanted to, uh. To say something was just a flesh wound...”_

“Only that I’ve heard the third time’s the charm. Exactly how many times do you think he can walk away from me?”

_“...Shouldn’t I be able to feel what they’re doing? Joly said, Joly said it’d hurt, but I can’t feel...”_

“Oh hello there,” says the real Courfeyrac, very loudly from very close to Enjolras. “Are you here for the wedding?”

Absolute horror rises up in Enjolras. “Courf,” he says, swinging towards him. “Don’t, it isn’t…” _safe_ , he was going to say, but Courfeyrac’s eyes have already fallen to the knife, so he must already know that.

He stumbles slightly, but only for a second, and then he just keeps right on, swinging his cane as if he hasn’t a care in the world, and closing the last of the distance until he can sling an arm around Enjolras’s waist.

“I’m sorry, _have_ we met?” he asks Thenardier.

“Monsieur Courfeyrac?” Thenardier asks. 

“Actually it’s _de_ Courfeyrac,” Courfeyrac says, which he never does, his scorn for the remnants of nobility even harsher than Enjolras’s. “Or really it’s de Courfeyrac-Prouvaire, but that’s very new, so I’ll forgive you for not knowing.”

He still sounds light and airy. Enjolras watches as Thenardier assesses then dismisses him as a threat. 

“Courf, go back to the party,” Enjolras begs, because he doesn’t trust that tone one bit. 

“I heard a little of what you were saying,” Courfeyrac says, ignoring him. “But I think I missed the context. You want Enjolras to take back his statement about you, is that right?”

“More or less,” Thenardier agrees, eyes starting to narrow. 

“And not to give evidence in court?” Courfeyrac presses.

Thenardier tips his head, agreeing again.

“But why?” Courfeyrac asks. “What’s in it for him? That’s the part I missed.”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras whispers. He can’t bear this. Courfeyrac standing this close to Thenardier is the stuff of nightmares.

“Does it have something to do with the knife?” Courfeyrac presses.

Slowly, a smile creeps across Thenardier’s face. It sends a shiver down Enjolras’s spine. “Not a knife, no. I believe you’re familiar with guns.”

Because Enjolras is so close to Courfeyrac, he can feel the shudder that goes through him, but it doesn’t show on Courfeyrac’s face. “Oh,” he says. “Enjolras needs to take back his statement or you’ll shoot him?”

Thenardier steps closer again. Enjolras can hear rustling amongst the trees. This is such an idyllic place to be terrified. He wonders how much it would hurt Courfeyrac, if Enjolras were to just shove him out of the way.

“No, Monsieur _de_ Courfeyrac.” Thenardier smiles at Courfeyrac and then at Enjolras. “Enjolras needs to take back his statement or I’ll shoot _you_.”

Courfeyrac’s fingernails dig hard into Enjolras’s ribs. It reminds Enjolras to breathe in.

“Wonderful,” Courfeyrac says, straightening up. “Thank you so much for the clarification.” He raises his voice. “Was that clear enough?”

“What?” Thenardier starts, but before he can get any further, Inspector Javert materialises from behind a nearby tree, Cosette one step behind him. “ _Javert_? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Well, I was at a party,” Javert huffs, looking like nothing more than an angry penguin in his smart suit. “Now, I’m arresting you.”

Thenardier scoffs. “Fuck off, you wouldn’t dare.”

Javert holds out a hand towards Cosette, who smirks and pulls out a pair of handcuffs, from goodness knows where.

Javert advances.

Thenardier retreats.

“Oh no you don’t,” Courfeyrac says and sticks his cane directly behind Thenardier’s knees, making him stagger and stumble and crash into Courfeyrac. 

Enjolras is so busy making sure that Courfeyrac stays on his feet, that he almost misses when Thenardier spins around, his knife flashing.

Enjolras’s mind goes blank. He doesn’t think. The only thing he knows is that he refuses to watch Courfeyrac bleed again.

He steps into the path of the knife.

At the same time, he swings his hand up. Four years of anger and hurt give him a kind of strength that he didn’t know he had and, before Thenardier’s knife can land, Enjolras gets in first. His fist connects with Thenardier’s nose, bone and cartilage collapsing under his knuckles before Thenardier goes flying, landing on his back at the foot of the nearest tree.

Cosette is on him before he can move, rolling him over with a practised speed and slamming the cuffs closed with a very decisive click.

Javert turns away, apparently content to leave his daughter to it, and puts a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, he does the same to Enjolras. “Are you both all right?”

“Fine!” Courfeyrac says, sounding shaky.

Enjolras can only nod. He feels as if he’s just exorcised a very powerful demon and it’s incredibly overwhelming.

Carefully, he lets himself sit down and put his head in his hands. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. More than anything, he wants Grantaire.

Someone comes darting over just then and, for a second, he thinks that he’s managed to summon him, but it isn’t Grantaire, it’s Jehan.

“Oh my god,” they say, dropping down to their knees in front of Enjolras and wrapping both arms around him, kissing the top of his head hard, “Oh my god, sweetheart, are you okay?”

Enjolras nods again. He isn’t quite up to speaking yet, but he’s almost certain that he is okay.

“Okay, just breathe,” Jehan murmurs, before they jump back up and fling themself at Courfeyrac. “And you! Don’t take on armed men on our wedding day, what the fuck?”

Courfeyrac blinks. “Sorry?” he says. “Sorry. I… didn’t mean to?”

“Oh my god, that was so hot, you’re so hot.” Jehan takes Courfeyrac’s face in both hands and kisses him deeply, so deeply that Enjolras would look away if he was able to think that clearly.

“I’ll take him back to the station, you stay and enjoy the party,” Javert says to Cosette, pulling Thenardier up to his feet and ignoring the way Thenardier is squawking about the blood dripping from his nose.

_I did that_ , Enjolras thinks and feels nothing but viciously satisfied.

“Come back later,” Jehan says, still mouth to mouth with Courfeyrac. “There’s going to be cake.”

Javert nods solemnly. “I wouldn’t miss cake for the world.”

“Excellent,” Jehan says and goes back to kissing Courfeyrac.

Cosette looks at them, grins, then walks over and touches Enjolras lightly on the shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” says Enjolras, then realises it’s true. He pushes himself to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me though?”

Cosette waves him off. “We’ll interview you formally later.”

Enjolras nods, tells himself that if the interview takes place at the station, he will actually ask for help before he panics, and heads back into the midst of the party. 

All the amis seem to know what was happening, because he’s stopped half a dozen times. He tells the same story and answers the same questions each time, because everyone here is family, everyone here deserves reassurance, but it’s still a relief when Combeferre sends him off with a final hug, and he’s actually able to look for Grantaire.

He finds him smoking at the front of the hotel, far away from all the commotion, Eponine sitting beside him and Gavroche playing with his lighter.

“What happened?” Eponine demands the second she sees Enjolras. Gavroche puts down the lighter and goes still, listening.

Enjolras has no problem telling the story once more, since these are the people who most need to hear it. When he reaches the part where he hit their father, Eponine actually smiles and Gavroche punches the air.

“Fuck yes!” he yells and absolutely no one tells him not to swear.

“How’s your hand?” Grantaire asks, stubbing out his cigarette and speaking for the first time.

Enjolras frowns, realising that it does actually ache a little. He looks down at it, takes in the blood on his knuckles and has a brief moment of unreality, before he flexes his fingers and decides, “A little sore.”

Grantaire reaches for him, taking Enjolras’s hand in both of his and cradling it gently. He licks his thumb, wipes away the blood, then kisses the back of Enjolras’s fingers. “I bet you don’t know how to actually throw a punch.”

“... probably not,” Enjolras allows, “but I did well. I think I broke his nose.”

“This is the best day ever,” Gavroche sighs happily. “Can we go back to the party? Eponine? Can we? I want to tell everyone Enjolras broke Dad’s nose!”

“Think you’ve got a fan there,” Grantaire says, as Gavroche drags Eponine away and back through the hotel, still talking delightedly. 

“Yes, that’s nice,” says Enjolras, not really listening. He sits down next to Grantaire and sighs in relief. This was what he wanted. He loves every one of his friends to distraction, but he wanted Grantaire more than anything.

“Are you all right?” Grantaire asks, still stroking Enjolras’s bruised knuckles. “Still breathing? No flashbacks?”

“Still breathing,” Enjolras says. “Few flashbacks. None since I punched him.”

“Ha, the healing power of violence. Who knew?” Grantaire slides his free arm around Enjolras’s back and presses their knees together. “Want me to talk or want some silence?”

Enjolras doesn’t need to think about it. He knows his answer. “ _I_ want to talk. I want…” He turns fully to face Grantaire. “R, do you love me?”

Grantaire smiles uncertainly, eyes flicking across Enjolras’s face as though he might be able to read something new from him. “You know I do.”

Enjolras nods. He does know. “I love you too,” he says. “I know you didn’t want me to say it too early, and I respect that, but I am one hundred percent certain now. I _love_ you.”

Grantaire stares at him. Slowly, his eyes go damp and his voice sounds hoarse when he says, “Did you decide that before or after you broke someone’s nose?”

“After.” Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s hand hard. “I felt so relieved after I hit him, I was _happy_ , and I wished that you were there with me. I know I’ve needed you a lot lately, and leant on you a lot, and I’m sure I’ll need to again, but today it wasn’t about being miserable or lonely, it was purely about feeling good and wanting to share that with you.”

“Share the punching?” Grantaire asks, blinking and looking dazed.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise that isn’t a laugh, no matter how much it might sound like one. “You’re impossible. Will you please, please just let me tell you that I love you, and will you please believe me?”

Grantaire uses their joined hands to wipe his eyes, glaring at Enjolras the whole time as though the half-shed tears are his fault. Which, admittedly, they might be.

“Okay, um, maybe I do believe you,” he says, wonderingly, barely more than a whisper.

“Thank god,” Enjolras says and kisses him. 

They kiss for quite a long time, certainly longer than the owners of this very nice hotel would probably prefer, since they’re in full view of every arriving visitor. Then Grantaire has another cigarette and they sit quietly together, occasionally talking, but mostly just bumping their shoes together and smiling at each other.

“This is a really nice wedding,” Grantaire says at length. “Of course Courf and Jehan had the kind of fairytale wedding where not only do they get their happy ever after, but everyone else does too.”

“Is that what this is?” Enjolras asks, genuinely asking. He rather likes the idea of being happy forever. Not that long ago it felt as if he was going to be _un_ happy forever, so this is a wonderful change.

“It might be,” Grantaire says. “The boy I’ve been crushing on forever just said he loves me, so anything is possible.” He laughs then turns serious again. “Not that I’m expecting us to have a wedding! Obviously! That wasn’t what I was implying! I was making a comparison, not a direct...a direct…”

Enjolras kisses him, cutting him off before he can work himself into a knot.

“I know what you were saying,” he promises, “and… I don’t know when or if I’ll be ready for marriage. Or, or for the emotional equivalent, if you decide the legal sort isn’t for you, but it’s certainly my goal to try to get there.”

Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “Well,” he says. “I have no idea what to say to that.” He puts his head on Enjolras’s shoulder, his words blowing warm against Enjolras’s neck. “Just. Just stick around? That’s the only commitment I really need from you.”

Enjolras leans their heads together. “I’m doing that,” he promises and it doesn’t feel as terrifying as it used to. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Grantaire says, still muffled.

“Good?” Enjolras asks, laughing.

“Oh shut up,” Grantaire tells him and pulls Enjolras up and onto his lap. With Grantaire’s arms wrapped tightly around him, Enjolras couldn’t move even if he wanted to. But that’s fine, that’s perfect, there’s nowhere he wants to go.

/The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finished!!! Thank you to everyone who read and commented along the way, and hello to anyone who was waiting for it to finish being a WIP before starting on it. 
> 
> What have we learnt from this experience? Don't start posting a WIP just before the world is hit by a very distracting pandemic. This was never meant to take so long to complete, so thank you so much for sticking with it.
> 
> Some other things:
> 
> * Moog is the MVP here for reminding me about this story every so often over the past 5 years and then betaing every chapter once it finally existed.  
> * This is the longest fic I've ever finished! In the year of our lord 2020. Remarkable.  
> * The entire idea for this was sparked by [Barricade by Stars](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=rQUEJd2eBqo&list=RDAMVMrQUEJd2eBqo)  
> * I'm thinking about writing the Courf/Jehan prequel, but would anyone be interested in reading that or would I just be writing for my own private id?
> 
> <3 All comments and kudos will be loved and snuggled from an appropriate social distance <3


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